There’s something I’ve learned as I’ve gotten older… you don’t fully understand where you come from until life gives you moments that force you to look back.
And when I look back, I don’t just see memories.
I see a foundation.
My parents have been together for 45 years. Married for 42. And when I say that, I don’t say it lightly. I say it as someone who grew up inside that relationship, watching it shape everything I thought love was supposed to be.
It wasn’t loud or performative. It wasn’t something they tried to prove to anyone. It was just lived. Day after day. Year after year. In the small things most people overlook.
My dad was the steady one in motion. Always building something. Always fixing something. Always doing something with his hands. He taught me how to not be afraid of getting dirty, how to figure things out instead of waiting for someone else to step in, and how to trust myself even when things felt complicated.
We spent a lot of time outside, four-wheelers, old cars, dirt roads, and those moments where things would get a little too tilted and suddenly we were both looking at each other like, “oh shit, we might actually flip this.” And then we’d laugh like nothing ever happened.
That’s the kind of childhood I had. Not perfect, but real.
What I didn’t understand at the time is that this is probably where my hyper-independence comes from. Watching him. Learning from him. Seeing a man who didn’t just say he loved his family, but proved it in every action. In every repair. In every long day of work. In every sacrifice he made without needing credit for it.
And without ever putting it into words, he also showed me what I should expect from love.
Not flashy. Not confusing. Just steady.
My dad worships my mom in the quietest, most grounded way. The kind of love that doesn’t need attention because it’s already secure. He shows up for her in every single way a man should. And as I’ve gotten older, I’ve realized how rare that really is.
He is a stand-up man. And I am deeply aware of how lucky I am that the first example of love I ever saw from a man was him.
Because in a lot of ways, that example is still what I measure everything against today.
It’s also what I see reflected in my relationship now with Cody. Not as a copy of my parents, but as a familiar feeling. A steadiness. A respect. A kind of love that doesn’t leave you questioning where you stand or whether someone will show up when life gets hard. It just does.
My mom was the other half of that foundation.
She was steady in a different way. The kind of steady that holds everything together when no one is watching. She made home feel like home in a way I didn’t fully appreciate until I was older.
Growing up, there were even code words we could use if we were in a situation and needed help. No questions asked. No judgment. Just a response. Just safety. She would come. Every time.
That alone shaped something in me that I carry into adulthood. The understanding that I am never truly alone, even when life feels overwhelming.
We didn’t grow up with a lot of money, but we grew up rich in everything that actually matters.
Camping trips instead of vacations. Boats. Sand dunes. Softball tournaments. A life that was always moving but always together. My mom and I playing in Portland while my dad and sister were in California doing the same kind of life in a different place. Always connected. Always family.
And home was always the place we came back to.
That never changed.
Even when life got harder.
Even when I grew up and thought I had everything figured out.
When I went through my divorce, I went back home.
And I still don’t think I can fully put into words what that meant.
The night my husband told me he wanted a divorce, I called my mom from Texas. I remember that moment so clearly because I didn’t even have time to process what was happening before she was already in motion. She got on a plane within 24 hours. No hesitation. No questions. No “are you sure?” or “what happened?”
She just came.
She showed up in Texas and brought me home to Oregon. Back to safety. Back to my parents. Back to the place that had always been there waiting for me, even when I didn’t realize I would need it again as an adult.
That is the kind of love you don’t forget.
It changes how you understand the world.
It changes how you understand yourself.
My childhood home has always been that place for me. Not just a house, but a sense of grounding. A place where I knew I would be held through whatever life threw at me.
There’s something still there that reminds me of how deeply rooted we are as a family. In the backyard, there are blueberry plants that were planted in the 1980s when my parents first moved into that home. My grandmother gave them to them as a housewarming gift, and they are still there today. Still growing. Still producing fruit year after year.
When Cody and I got our home, we were gifted a blueberry plant as well from my parents. And something about that moment stopped me in my tracks.
Because it felt like life quietly repeating itself in the most meaningful way.
Rooted things don’t just survive. They continue.
They carry forward.
And that’s what my family has always been to me.
Not perfect. Not untouched by struggle. But deeply rooted in something real enough to last.
I’ve also come to understand that I carry more of my parents into my life than I ever realized when I was younger. My dad’s independence. My mom’s emotional safety. Their work ethic. Their loyalty. Their ability to stay when things are hard instead of running from discomfort.
Even their relationship, something I grew up inside of but didn’t fully understand until adulthood, and that has shaped the standards I now hold in my own life.
They didn’t just raise me.
They modeled what love can look like when two people choose each other over and over again.
And even now, I can look at my life and see how much of that foundation shows up in how I build relationships, how I build trust, and how I build my future.
Because at some point, you realize you are not just living your life.
You are continuing something that started long before you.
And that’s where I find myself now.
Not at the end of a story, but at the beginning of a new chapter.
One that is about building something of my own.
My business. My voice. My life as it stands now, shaped by everything that came before it.
And what I’ve realized is that the same roots that raised me are the ones that continue to guide me forward.