Friday Flour and the Fortitude of the Finish Line

Hello, friends. The little blue house on Sycamore Street is finally quiet, if only for a few precious moments before the 5:20pm truck pull-in signifies Mark is home. I am sitting here at the kitchen table, the sun slanting through the blinds, feeling that specific kind of Friday fatigue that feels more like a badge of honor than a burden. It has been a full week, hasn't it? I can still smell the faint, lingering scent of 'Lavender Woods' from the candles I poured this morning, mixed with the yeasty aroma of the bread I attempted to bake for the first time in months.

Today felt like one of those days where the mundane tasks were trying to tell me something. It started early, before the kids were even stirring. I laced up my sneakers for a three-mile run, pushing toward that Harvest 5K goal in October. I hit the pavement just as the sun was peeking over the horizon, and I'll be honest with you ladies—my legs felt like lead. I kept thinking about yesterday’s shift at Miller’s Hardware and how much my back ached from stocking those heavy bins of mulch, but I told myself to just keep moving. One foot, then the other.

By the time I hit the two-mile mark near the park, something shifted. I wasn't just running; I was breathing. I wasn't just checking a box for my health; I was reclaiming a bit of Lucy. I’ve realized lately that staying in shape isn't just about the numbers on a scale or the time on a stopwatch. It’s about proving to myself that I can do hard things, even when the only audience is Biscuit, who was waiting by the door with a wagging tail when I finally looped back home.

After the run, the morning was a whirlwind of velociraptor pajamas and horse drawings. Noah is still in his dinosaur phase, and he insisted on 'hunting' for his cereal while Emma sat at the counter, meticulously drawing a stable on the back of her summer math packet. I watched them and felt that familiar tug in my chest—the one that wonders if I’m doing enough, if I’m being enough. But then Joanne from next door waved at me through the window, her pink bathrobe a bright splash against her petunias, and she gave me a thumbs-up. It was a tiny moment, but it felt like a nod from the universe.

I spent most of the late morning in the kitchen, working on a fresh batch of Etsy orders. 'Lucy's Little Light' is growing, slowly but surely. I was hand-pouring the wax when Megan called from the bakery. She’s busy prepping for the weekend rush, but she wanted to check in about our Pickleball match tomorrow. We talked about the business side of things—how hard it is to price your own labor when you’re used to giving it away for free. We talked about self-worth and how easy it is to feel like your value is tied to your productivity.

Megan told me something that stayed with me all day: 'Lucy, you aren't just a bookkeeper or a candle maker or a mom. You're the one who keeps the light on.' It made me think about my marriage with Mark. He works such long days, leaving at 5:30am and coming home exhausted. Sometimes I worry that I’ve lost that spark of desirability in the midst of laundry piles and grocery lists. But then I remember the way he looked at me last night when I was just sitting on the porch, sweaty from a run and covered in flour, and I realize that being seen is a form of being loved.

I’ve been tracking our finances in the robin-egg-blue journal Megan gave me, and seeing the small growth in my Etsy savings is so empowering. It’s not a fortune, but it’s mine. It’s a testament to the hours spent after the kids are in bed, testing scents and trimming wicks. Every small victory, whether it’s a faster mile or a sold candle, is a brick in the house of the woman I’m becoming. I’m 34, and for the first time, I feel like I’m not just waiting for life to happen to me.

I took a break this afternoon to walk down to the bakery to see Dani for a quick trim. The salon above Sweet Magnolia always smells like sugar and hairspray, a combination that strangely feels like home. We talked about the 5K, and she encouraged me to keep pushing. It’s funny how a community can hold you up when your own knees feel weak. I walked back home feeling lighter, both literally and figuratively, ready to face the evening rush.

Now, the dinner is in the oven, the kids are playing quietly in the backyard with Biscuit, and I’m just taking this moment for us. I want you to know, if you’re feeling like you’re stuck in the 'messy middle,' that you aren’t alone. The progress might be slow, and the path might be dusty, but you are moving forward. You are worth the effort you put into yourself. You are more than the roles you fill for other people.

Mark’s truck should be turning the corner any minute now. I’m going to set the table and maybe light one of the 'Sweet Cedar' candles to welcome him home. It’s the little things, isn't it? The way we choose to show up for ourselves and for the people we love, day after day. It’s not always glamorous, and it’s rarely easy, but it is always, always worth it. I am learning to love the woman I see in the mirror, flour smudges and all.

I’m heading off now to start the evening routine. I hope your Friday is ending with a sense of peace and a bit of pride in how far you’ve come this week. We have the whole weekend ahead of us—Saturdays are for pickleball and Sundays are for sauce and family, and I can’t wait to tell you all about it. Take a deep breath, ladies. You’re doing better than you think you are.

I love you. — Lucy