If you asked me when my life started to change, when it became a clear case of before loss and after loss, I would tell you it was June 15, 2020.

Exactly six years ago today.

There have been plenty of defining moments in my life, but I can look back now and see that this was the beginning of a chain reaction that would completely reshape my world. At the time, I had no idea. Looking back, though, I can draw a straight line from that day to many of the biggest losses and life changes that followed, culminating in my husband's death on December 15, 2021.

On June 15, 2020, our beloved dog, Rain, passed away.

His death wasn't unexpected. He was around fifteen years old and had lived a long, happy life. Even so, the experience was incredibly traumatic for James and me. Losing a pet is one of those grief experiences people often underestimate until they go through it themselves. For us, Rain wasn't "just a dog." He had been woven into the fabric of our everyday lives for years.

Oddly enough, his death became one of those defining moments that strengthened our marriage.

There are events in life that either push couples apart or pull them closer together. For us, losing Rain brought us closer. We grieved together. We leaned on each other. Looking back now, I think we needed that connection because neither of us knew the storm that was waiting just around the corner.

Around that same time, James and I were in the process of becoming licensed foster parents. Part of that process involved a home study, which is essentially a deep dive into your life, your family, and your relationship. There were interviews, paperwork, background checks, and countless conversations about who we were as people and as a couple.

I remember one question in particular.

The social worker asked us to describe a time we had faced significant challenges together as a couple. We were asked about financial struggles, family conflicts, health issues, marriage difficulties, and other major obstacles we had overcome.

The funny thing is, at that point, we didn't really have an answer.

I don't say that to brag. Quite the opposite.

The next couple of years would hand us more challenges than I ever thought possible.

But at that moment in time, James and I had been remarkably lucky. We had experienced normal life stressors, of course, but we hadn't yet been tested by the kinds of losses that fundamentally change who you are.

Sometimes I joke that God, Source, the Universe, or whatever higher power is running the show looked down at my life and realized they'd forgotten to sprinkle in the hard times.

Then they dumped five years' worth on me all at once.

Of course, that's not really how life works. But there are seasons when challenges seem to arrive one after another, so quickly that you barely have time to catch your breath before the next one appears.

And for me, that season seemed to begin with Rain.

He was one of those once-in-a-lifetime dogs.

Even six years later, he still shows up in my dreams. Sometimes they're vivid enough that I wake up expecting to see him lying in his usual spot. There was always something special about him, something difficult to explain. Maybe every pet owner feels that way about their favorite dog, but I've never been able to shake the feeling that Rain was different.

Looking back now, his death feels like a threshold.

Not because losing him caused everything that came after, but because it marked the end of one chapter and the beginning of another.

Within the next eighteen months, we would experience a failed foster placement, welcome our son into our lives, receive James' cancer diagnosis, and eventually say goodbye to him far sooner than anyone should have to.

The version of me that existed before June 15, 2020, had no idea what was coming.

I've heard people say that our bodies remember trauma anniversaries, even when our minds aren't consciously thinking about them. I don't know if that's scientifically true.

What I do know is that every year around this time, I start feeling something shift.

A heaviness.

A sadness.

A sense of reflection.

Maybe it's grief. Maybe it's memory. Maybe it's simply recognizing a date that quietly divided my life into a before and an after.

If someone asked me what moment changed my life, they would probably expect me to say the day James died.

But I wouldn't.

I would say June 15, 2020.

Because that's the day the old version of my life quietly began to disappear.

How to Make Homemade Yogurt (Easy, Cozy, and Totally Worth It)

There’s something deeply grounding about making food from scratch. Maybe it’s the slow pace, maybe it’s the quiet confidence of knowing you can feed yourself without a grocery run. Either way, homemade yogurt is one of those projects that looks intimidating but is actually very forgiving.

If you have milk, a little yogurt, and patience, you’re already halfway there.

This is how I make homemade yogurt at home. No fancy equipment. No stress. Just real food and a little trust in the process.

Why Make Your Own Yogurt?

Homemade yogurt is:

• Cheaper than store-bought
• Customizable (thick, thin, tangy, mild)
• Made with ingredients you already recognize
• One of those “wait… I did that?” skills that quietly boosts your confidence

And once you make it once, you can keep making it forever using your own yogurt as the starter.

What You’ll Need

• ½ gallon whole milk
• 2–3 tablespoons plain yogurt with live active cultures
• A pot
• A spoon
• A jar or bowl
• A towel or blanket (for warmth)

That’s it. No yogurt maker required.

Step-by-Step: How to Make Homemade Yogurt

1. Heat the milk

Pour the milk into a pot and heat it over medium heat until it reaches about 180°F.

If you don’t have a thermometer, look for steam and small bubbles forming around the edges.

This step helps create thicker yogurt, so don’t rush it.

2. Cool the milk

Remove the pot from the heat and let the milk cool to about 110–115°F.

If you can comfortably hold a clean finger in the milk for 10 seconds, it’s ready.

3. Add the yogurt starter

Scoop a little warm milk into your yogurt and stir to thin it out.

Then gently stir that mixture back into the pot of milk.

Be gentle here. Yogurt likes calm energy.

4. Let it incubate

Pour the milk into a jar or bowl, cover it, and keep it warm for 6–12 hours.

Easy incubation options:

• Wrap it in a towel and place it in the oven with the light on (oven OFF)
• Set it in a warm corner of your kitchen
• Put it in a cooler with a warm water bottle

The longer it sits, the tangier and thicker it becomes.

5. Chill and set

Once it looks like yogurt, place it in the fridge for several hours.

This final chill is where it really firms up.

Before eating it all, save a few tablespoons to use as a starter for your next batch.

Congrats. You’re now self-sustaining.

If Your Yogurt Is Runny

This is extremely normal, especially for your first batch.

If it’s thinner than you like:

• Let it chill overnight before judging
• Strain it through a towel or coffee filter for thicker, Greek-style yogurt
• Use it in smoothies, baking, or savory sauces

Texture doesn’t equal failure. It’s still yogurt.

Tips for Thicker Yogurt Next Time

• Heat milk fully to 180°F
• Cool properly before adding the starter
• Incubate longer (10–12 hours)
• Use whole milk
• Don’t stir after it sets until you’re ready to eat

Final Thoughts

Homemade yogurt isn’t about perfection. It’s about slowing down, learning a rhythm, and realizing that real food doesn’t need to be complicated.

Even the “mistakes” are still edible.

And honestly? That’s kind of the best part.

In 2026, I’m committing to a simple but powerful idea: burn the boats.

Not in a reckless way.

Not in a dramatic, scorched-earth way.

But in a self-trusting, aligned, no-looking-back way.

For me, “burning the boats” means making decisions so rooted in intuition, clarity, and self-respect that I’m willing to stand on them fully without keeping an escape hatch open “just in case.”

What “Burn the Boats” Actually Means

The phrase “burn the boats” comes from a real, irreversible leadership decision in history.

In 1519, Spanish conquistador Hernán Cortés landed in what is now Mexico with his men. Many of them panicked and wanted to retreat, to sail back to Spain and abandon the mission.

Cortés removed that option entirely.

He ordered the ships destroyed. Some accounts say they were burned, others say sunk or stripped for parts. Either way, the message was unmistakable:

We’re not going back.

We either move forward, or we don’t survive.

No safety net.

No backup plan.

No half-commitment.

Why This Resonates With Me Now

For a long time, I made decisions with one foot forward and one foot quietly angled toward the exit.

Not because I didn’t care, but because I was afraid of being wrong.

Afraid of committing fully.

Afraid of trusting myself.

Afraid of closing doors that once felt familiar, even when they were no longer suitable for me.

In 2026, I want to lead my life differently.

I want to make choices that are so aligned with who I am and where I’m going that I don’t need a retreat plan.

Burning the Boats Isn’t Reckless. It’s Intentional

This concept gets misunderstood a lot. “Burn the boats” isn’t about impulsivity or forcing outcomes. It’s not about blowing up your life for the sake of transformation.

It’s about:

• Removing the option to return to what’s familiar but harmful
• Cutting off cycles you keep revisiting out of comfort, not alignment
• Choosing short-term discomfort over long-term regret
• Trusting your intuition enough to commit fully

It’s not about drama.

It’s about alignment through finality.

What This Looks Like in Real Life

For me, burning the boats in 2026 means:

• Making decisions without leaving emotional “breadcrumbs” behind
• Setting boundaries I don’t negotiate away later
• Choosing clarity over chaos, even when chaos feels exciting
• Trusting my body’s signals instead of rationalizing discomfort
• Letting go of backup versions of people, plans, or paths I’ve already outgrown

Once the boats are gone, clarity shows up fast.

There’s no more mental gymnastics.

No more “maybe someday.”

No more lingering in spaces that drain me.

Healing, Boundaries, and the Power of No Return

This idea hits especially hard in healing and reinvention seasons.

When you’re healing, you’re often tempted to revisit old dynamics because they’re known, even if they hurt. Burning the boats removes that temptation.

When you’re rebuilding, it’s easy to hedge your bets. Burning the boats demands confidence.

When you’re setting boundaries, finality is often the thing that actually makes them work.

You don’t burn the boats because you’re angry.

You burn them because you’ve grown.

My 2026 Commitment

In 2026, I’m committing to:

• Making decisions I’m proud to stand on
• Trusting my intuition more than outside noise
• Moving forward without romanticizing retreat
• Choosing alignment even when it’s uncomfortable
• Living like I believe in myself

Burning the boats isn’t about cutting off possibilities.

It’s about choosing the right one and committing fully.

And when there’s no way back, the only thing left to do is move forward.