Chill & Till Co.

Because even Mondays deserve a little sparkle.

It has been a while since I’ve actually sat myself down to write a post. Life has been full of beautiful days — the kind that feel soft and warm, like sunshine settling on your shoulders — and then a few days sprinkled in where the sadness sneaks in like that one weed you swear you pulled last week. On those days, I get so frustrated with myself. Anxiety peaks, my brain spirals, and suddenly nothing I do feels good enough.

And then I look at my husband — my peace, my happiness, my love, my missing piece — and I get even more annoyed at myself because here is the person who brings me the most comfort on this planet… and I’m over here being an emotional tornado with a side of dramatic flair. Neither of us really knows how to respond because neither of us has felt this exact way before, yet he still shows up for me every single time. So, shoutout to my husband, because I know he’s reading this: you’re the real MVP, babe. Even when I’m spiraling like a vine that refuses to grow on the trellis I gave it.

And somewhere in the middle of all that, I had one of those classic housewife moments where I’m doing twelve things at once and finishing absolutely none of them. Like I’ll start wiping the counters, then notice the laundry basket staring at me, then remember I left a half‑folded pile on the couch, then somehow end up reorganizing the pantry like I’m preparing for a surprise inspection from Martha Stewart. Meanwhile, the original task? Completely abandoned. And don’t even get me started on the way I’ll walk into the kitchen, forget why I’m there, grab a snack, and walk out like that was the plan all along. Half the time I feel like a domestic goddess, and the other half I’m convinced my brain is running on 3% battery with no charger in sight. It’s comforting though, realizing we’re all out here doing the same chaotic housewife shuffle — pretending we’ve got it together while Googling things like “how many times can you reheat coffee before it becomes a health risk.” Girl… SAME.

Anyway — wow. I really do wander off when I’m in my head. Since I last sat down to write, I’ve planted so much in the garden, spent time with the bestie (girls trip to Costco — WHOOP WHOOP). Nothing screams adulthood louder than getting excited about bulk deals and a 64‑pack of snacks you promise will last the month… but let’s be honest, they won’t. That and daydreaming about your favorite kitchen brand filling your entire kitchen in every color like some kind of domestic rainbow fantasy.

Funny thing is, the last three years have been the best of my entire 30 years of existence. I never thought I’d enjoy life this much. I even started a chocolate sourdough starter — because apparently I’ve reached the stage of life where feeding dough feels like a personality trait. I’ve done a lot more, but honestly… I should’ve written it down. My memory is basically a butterfly with commitment issues.

Now, the garden… oh, the wonderful garden. After planting everything, it was doing okay. Then I fertilized and BAM — happy seeds turned into thriving plants overnight. Even my ginger is thriving, and my mango seed sprouted like it had something to prove. The rain was perfect and so needed. It’s kinda funny how one week I’m getting sandal tan lines after five hours in the garden on a breezy 95‑degree day, and the next week it’s rainy and 50. Makes me feel better knowing nature is just as unpredictable as I am. Honestly, if the weather had a personality, it would be “girl, same.”

And Mondays… so many people dread them. Personally, I find a weird sense of peace in Mondays. The smell of freshly fed sourdough starter, the sun peeking through the windows, the quiet promise of a new week. A new day for new choices. I’m currently working on eight loaves of sourdough while writing this, sipping a hot cup of tea, and feeling like a cozy little cottage witch who accidentally joined a baking cult. How great is that? We live, we breathe, and we get to start over every single day.

Just because society has its own version of “the perfect life” doesn’t mean that has to be yours. We’re all different — in the absolute best ways. I hate that we women compare ourselves so much. It shouldn’t be this hard to love ourselves exactly as we are. If plants can grow crooked and still be beautiful, so can we. Half my garden looks like it’s vibing its own way through life, and honestly, I respect that energy.

Well, now that I’ve gone on a couple tangents (classic), I’m going to leave this here so I can start on my cabinets. Today is going to be a good day. And honestly, if my life continues at the same level of chaos it usually does, I’m sure I’ll have something new to overshare very soon. Between the garden acting like it’s auditioning for a Disney movie, my sourdough starter developing a personality of its own, and me discovering yet another chore I started and absolutely did not finish… trust me, the content writes itself.

So stick around — because knowing me, by the time I sit down to write again, I’ll either have a hilarious story, a minor crisis, a new plant obsession, or all three at once. And honestly? That feels on brand.