Dusting Off Dreams And Tuesday Triumphs

Hello, friends. I am sitting here at the kitchen table with the late afternoon sun spilling across my robin-egg-blue journal, the house finally beginning to cool down after a real Iowa scorcher. Mark just pulled into the driveway—it is exactly 5:20pm, and I can hear the familiar heavy clunk of his boots on the porch as he greeted Biscuit. There is something so grounding about the rhythm of his return; nine years of marriage has taught me that these small, predictable beats are the heart of a home.

Today was a Tuesday, which meant a shift at Miller’s Hardware. I walked in at 11:00am and was immediately met with that comforting, heavy scent of fresh sawdust and metallic oil. Mr. Miller was in a bit of a tizzy over the inventory of galvanized nails, so I spent most of my four hours tucked away in the back office, balancing the books and listening to the hum of the overhead fans. It is quiet work, but it feels good to be trusted with the numbers. There is a specific kind of dignity in making things add up, and it makes me feel like I am finally owning my space in the world, not just as a mom or a wife, but as Lucy.

After my shift, I came home to a mailbox that felt a little heavier than usual. To my absolute delight, there were three new orders for my 'Lucy’s Little Light' candles. It might not sound like a lot to some, but three hand-poured jars going out to strangers who want their homes to smell like my 'Cedar Falls Sunset' blend? It feels like a massive victory for my little side hustle. Every dollar I tuck away from Etsy and my hours at Miller’s feels like a step toward a future where we don't have to stress so much about the unexpected.

Speaking of steps, I hit a milestone in my 5K training this morning before the kids were even stirring in their beds. I managed three and a half miles without stopping once. The humidity was thick enough to wear, and my lungs were burning as I rounded the corner of Sycamore Street, but I kept my eyes on the neighbor’s lilac bushes and just kept breathing. I caught a glimpse of Joanne in her pink bathrobe, deadheading her petunias early to beat the heat, and she gave me a little wave that felt like a finish line flag.

It is strange how training for this race in October has changed how I see myself. A few months ago, I would have looked in the mirror and only seen the soft spots or the tired eyes of a mother who has been up since dawn. Now, when I see my reflection in the bakery window while dropping off a batch of candles for Megan, I see legs that can carry me further than they used to. I feel strong. I feel desirable, not just because Mark tells me I am when he catches me unawares in the kitchen, but because I am proving something to myself.

Emma and Noah are currently in the living room, and the silence was getting suspicious until I checked on them. Noah is currently lining up his T-Rex and Triceratops in a very serious parade across the rug—he is still wearing his velociraptor pajamas even though it is nearly dinner time. Emma, bless her heart, has completely ignored her math worksheets again and has instead drawn a very detailed horse with wings on the back of her subtraction page. I should probably be stricter about the homework, but her imagination is so vivid right now I hate to stifle it.

Megan dropped by for five minutes earlier to vent about a broken oven at Sweet Magnolia. She looks exhausted, but even in her flour-dusted apron, she has this spark that always makes me feel like I can take on the world. We confirmed our pickleball match for Saturday, and I’m hoping the extra mileage on the pavement this week will give me the edge on the court. She’s competitive, and honestly, so am I. It’s good to have something that is just for me, away from the laundry and the bookkeeping.

I have been thinking a lot lately about how ‘slow and steady’ is a mantra for a reason. Whether it’s training for the 5K, growing my candle business, or just learning how to be more present with Mark after his long days on the construction site, the progress is rarely explosive. It is quiet. It is the sound of a candle wick trimming, the scratch of a pencil on an invoice, and the rhythmic sound of sneakers on a suburban road. And you know what, ladies? That is enough. We are enough precisely as we are, even as we strive for more.

The kids are starting to get restless, and I can hear Biscuit barking at a squirrel in the backyard, so I suppose it’s time to close this journal and start on dinner. Mark looks like he had a long day at the site, and I want to make sure I’m really *there* when we talk tonight, not just scrolling through my phone. We are holding onto these small victories, one day at a time.

Please remember to be kind to yourselves as the sun goes down tonight. Take a deep breath of whatever air you have—even if it smells like sawdust and old dinosaurs. I am so glad we are on this journey together. The little blue house is quiet for now, and my heart is very, very full.

I love you. — Lucy