My maternity leave curriculum in my Sterling Ink common planner that I use like a Hobonichi daily journal.
If you know me, you know I have approximately zero chill.
I love a challenge. I love a project. I love a checklist with little boxes waiting to be marked off. My brain is happiest when it has something to chew on.
One of the hardest parts of maternity leave with my first son wasn’t the sleepless nights or the endless laundry (although there was certainly plenty of both). It was that my mind suddenly went from running at full speed to…not having much to do. I loved caring for my baby, but I also missed feeling more mentally engaged. I found myself reaching for something to think about beyond the next feeding or nap.
So before this maternity leave began, I decided to give myself a little curriculum. I wasn’t looking to optimize maternity leave or squeeze productivity out of every nap. In fact, I wanted the opposite. I wanted something playful. Something that would gently nudge me toward the things that make me feel like me without becoming another obligation.
This year, my word is attune—paying closer attention to the things that have always been there but are easy to overlook in the rush of everyday life. It felt like the perfect lens for this season.
Instead of goals, I made categories:
Family adventures. Reading and personal growth. Photography. Home and lifestyle. Faith and spiritual formation. Nature and beauty.
Each category is filled with tiny ideas rather than big accomplishments. Visit a new playground. Read a classic. Print Instax photos. Memorize Scripture. Watch a sunrise. Notice wildflowers. Organize one drawer. Take one photo every week that tells the story of this season.
None of them are urgent. None of them are required. They’re simply invitations.
An invitation to notice.
An invitation to keep learning.
An invitation to create.
An invitation to be fully present during a season that I know will pass far too quickly.
The best part is that there’s absolutely no pressure to finish it. If the days get full of spit-up, contact naps, and keeping two little boys fed and loved on, that’s okay. This isn’t a race to the finish line. It’s just a collection of gentle reminders for the moments when I have a little margin.
We’re about five weeks into maternity leave now, and I’ve loved it so far. Not because I’m crossing everything off, but because it’s helping me stay connected to the things that fill me up alongside motherhood.
I’m also collecting little pieces of this season in a small album—photos, favorite quotes, scripture, gratitude lists, funny moments, things the boys do that I never want to forget. A tangible reminder of what this maternity leave actually felt like.
I’ve always loved creating little bucket lists for different seasons of life. Not because I think every moment needs to be productive, but because I know myself well enough to know that intentionality helps me slow down and pay attention.
And I think that’s exactly what Attune was always asking me to do.
I started thinking about my word of the year back in November when I realized nothing had really come to mind yet. Some years the word feels obvious and steady by fall, and other years it doesn’t fully surface until I’m goal setting in December. I’ve learned not to rush it. The right word has always found me when it’s ready.
This year felt different though. I was newly pregnant, and I knew that would shape whatever word emerged. I didn’t want to force something sentimental just because of the season, but I also didn’t want to ignore how much this year already feels like a threshold.
So I did something I’ve never done before — I asked ChatGPT for suggestions. I shared my past words (Joy, Rooted, Adventure, Nourish, Thrive, Connect, Rest, Open, Delight, Engage, Experiment, Whole, Play) and asked if there were patterns. Seeing them all laid out reminded me how cyclical my choosing has been — expansion, grounding, delight, connection — a rhythm between outward adventure and inward anchoring.
I initially thought maybe my word would lean into pregnancy in an obvious way: something like Bloom, Nurture, or Wonder. Those were beautiful, but they didn’t feel quite settled.
Then I realized I was craving something slower. Less performance, more presence. I kept coming back to words like slow, savor, space, enough. I’ve been deeply impacted by the idea that life isn’t waiting for me in some bigger, better version of my circumstances. The life I want is already here. I don’t need more space, more time, more readiness — I need gentleness with what is.
“Enough” almost became my word. I loved what it represented: contentment over striving. Gratitude instead of “if only.” But it still felt slightly static.
When the word attune surfaced, something clicked.
Attune felt alive. It held slowness without stagnation. It held gratitude without forcing positivity. It felt like listening instead of proving. Like tuning an instrument before playing — aligning first, acting second.
Attune means paying attention — to my body (especially now), to my children, to my intuition, to the subtle cues in my home and relationships. It means moving at the pace of this season instead of the pace of pressure. It means trusting what I sense. It means responding instead of reacting.
After a year of Play — spontaneity, adventure, “why not?” — Attune feels like the exhale.
Not smaller.
Just deeper.
This year, I don’t want more noise. I want more noticing.
More listening.
More presence.
More trust.
More enoughness.
2026 will be the year of attunement.
🌿 Attune Definition
To adjust or bring something (or oneself) into harmony, accord, or a sympathetic relationship, often involving becoming more aware or responsive to something like sounds, needs, or trends, essentially meaning to get in tune or acclimatize. It can refer to musical tuning or, more commonly, to a figurative sense of fitting in or understanding a situation deeply.
Key meanings:
To Harmonize: To bring into agreement or balance, like tuning a musical instrument or aligning feelings.
To Adjust/Accustom: To adapt or acclimatize a person or thing to a new environment or situation.
To Make Aware/Responsive: To become sensitive or receptive to something, such as needs, signals, or nuances.
🌿 2026 Intentions — Attune
1. I will attune to my body and trust what it tells me. I listen without judgment, honor my limits, and respond with care rather than pressure.
2. I will attune to this season, not rush past it. I release the urge to hurry toward what’s next and stay present with what is unfolding now.
3. I will attune to my children with patience and curiosity. I respond to cues instead of reacting to noise, trusting connection over control.
4. I will attune to joy, noticing it in small, ordinary moments. I slow down enough to savor what’s already here.
5. I will attune to gratitude by practicing enoughness. I resist the pull of “if only” and choose contentment in the life I have.
6. I will attune to my energy and move at a reasonable pace. Rest is not earned — it is essential, and I welcome it without guilt.
7. I will attune to my intuition and let it guide my decisions. I trust my inner knowing, especially when the path feels quiet or subtle.
8. I will attune to what truly matters and let the rest fall away. I make space for what nourishes me and gently release what distracts or depletes.
🌿 My 2026 Mantra
“I attune to the rhythms of my body and my life, moving at the pace of this season. I choose presence, gratitude, and enough—letting them shape who I am becoming.”
🌿 My Vision Board
Cheers to a whole new year and all kinds of new adventures. ❤️
One of my favorite ways to document the passing of time is through small moments—everyday snapshots that might otherwise go unnoticed. These ‘from where I stood’ photos capture glimpses of my life this March, each one holding a story of its own.
Two Different Shoes – Honestly, I thought I’d be a more put together parent. We left the house in a hurry, and I didn’t notice until we were already out that my dude had confidently chosen two different shoes. I laughed for hours over this.
Our Trail Spot – This month has been a big one for the trail! Lots of awesome birds spotted and heard – barred owl and great horned owl being our favorites. These walks are a reset button, a breath of fresh air at the end of busy days.
Reading Break – I carved out time for a book in the midst of wedding weekend. Lounging with my legs stretched out, a novel in hand, and the afternoon light streaming in—one of my favorite ways to pause.
Wedding Weekend – The stone pathway, my dress flowing around my feet, and the excitement of celebrating love. I don’t get dressed up often, so this moment felt special—two evenings of joy, laughter, and friendship.
Travel Time – I love to travel and airplanes are so fun to me. There’s something about looking down and seeing my feet in a cramped airplane seat that makes travel feel real. It’s the in-between space—no longer where I was, not yet where I’m going.
The Pitcher – A tiny glove, a bright red ball, and being told my tosses are why he can’t make contact. Wait until he learns that this is the point.
Walking Challenge – Dark sidewalks, cool air, and the glow of streetlights. Started a StepBet with my workout group this month and I’m all in on hitting my goal. Each step is a small victory and the dogs aren’t complaining either!
Farmers Market Shadows – The sun casting long silhouettes as we walked through the market. A simple Saturday morning, full of fresh produce, friendly chatter, and the feeling of community.
Blooms in the Yard – it’s Finally Spring – Bright yellow against the lingering frost, the first daffodil of the season. A tiny promise that winter is behind us, and warmth is on its way.
These are the moments that made up my March. The big, the small, the in-between—all worth remembering.
Another month, another round up of photos documenting where I was over the last month. It honestly felt as dreary as it looks. I kind of love the muted tones of these photos because that is exactly how the month felt. Looking forward to a more springy selection in March.
• Callahan’s Tiny Things – I never want to forget Callahan’s little treasures, carefully collected and handled with love. A panda, a heart, a tiny dog—among many other things tucked safely in his drawer.
• Sick at Home – Too many days in February spent in pajamas, snuggled up in bed next to two cuddly pups. This month has been full of tissues, electrolytes, and naps.
• Golf – A winter escape to the indoor putting green (even if it’s just at Dick’s Sporting Goods), boots on artificial grass, trying to shake off the cold-weather blues. Our boy loves the sport and let’s be honest, I do too.
• Playing Outside – Sneakers on concrete, basketball in hand, soaking up every tolerable moment of fresh air before the next cold front rolls in.
• Ice Skating – Standing on the ice, watching tiny skates glide forward, slow and unsteady. Holding my toddler’s hand, feeling the wobbles and the determination.
• Family Exercise – A workout for three squeezed into the living room, weights on the rug, trying to get our pump on.
• Toys in the Living Room – A floor covered in stuffed animals and basketballs, proof of a day well played. My feet among the chaos, embracing the mess of childhood.
• Soda and Shopping Vibes – A weekend with my folks always includes a fountain soda grabbed by dad and a trip to target with mom always makes my day. Sidewalk slush, white sneakers, a small but familiar joy.
• Soaking up the Sun – Face tilted upward, spring finally in the air, melting the last bits of snow. Always thankful for glimpses that remind us that winter won’t last forever.
Life is made up of small, ordinary moments—ones we often overlook but that quietly shape our days. In January, I decided to capture some of those moments through a simple perspective: from where I stood. Each photo tells a story, a glimpse into the rhythm of my life.
• Letting the dogs outside – The familiar shuffle to the door, the burst of cold air, the wagging tails. A tiny act of love repeated every day.
• On the treadmill – The hum of movement, the steady rhythm of steps. A commitment to myself, even when it feels like a chore.
• In the car with a book – A stolen moment of stillness, words filling the space before the next thing begins.
• On the stairs at home – A pause between floors, a transition between moments. The in-between places of life.
• At the stove, making soup – Warmth rising, the smell of simmering broth filling the kitchen. A moment of care, both for myself and the people I love.
• Beside my toddler’s bed – The soft rise and fall of breath, the quiet weight of love. A moment I want to hold onto forever.
• At my new desk at work – A fresh start, an unfamiliar space slowly becoming mine. The promise of new routines.
• In the snow with my toddler – Laughter, footprints, and cold fingers. Seeing winter through their eyes makes it magic.
• Watching my toddler play – The sun on my face, the sounds of childhood filling the air. A reminder to slow down and just be.
These photos aren’t grand or extraordinary—they’re just the little moments that make up my days. But looking back at them, I see the quiet beauty in the ordinary, and from where I stand, that’s more than enough.
I have a habit of looking down. Not in a metaphorical way, but literally—at my own feet, at the ground beneath me, at the space I occupy in a given moment. “From where I stand” started as a simple photography prompt in college, a way to capture the passing of time through the smallest, most mundane details. The shoes I wore, the floors I walked on, the places that felt like mine for a season.
It became more than just a creative exercise. It was a way to mark time, to recognize the routines and moments that seemed permanent until, one day, they weren’t. The things I did every day—walking a certain path, eating lunch at the same table, unlocking the same door—eventually slipped away, replaced by something new.
In college, “from where I stand” was often a sidewalk cutting across campus, a library floor worn smooth by late-night studying, the entrance to my first real job where I felt equal parts eager and unqualified. My world was small but full of possibility, shaped by new friendships, the weight of books in my bag, and the feeling that everything was just beginning.
Then came the days of being newly married, of standing in new places and doing everything together, just because we could. The world opened up in a different way—road trips, a tiny apartment, the quiet joy of figuring out how to share a life. I took photos of our front porch, of the trails we explored with our new pup, of the kitchen where we played house before we really knew what that meant.
As I stepped into leadership at work, I found myself in meetings, in offices where decisions had consequences, in the spaces where people looked to me for guidance. It was a different kind of adventure, one that required more confidence than I sometimes had. But I captured it anyway—the conference room tables, the leaves on the ground on my way into a meeting, the moments in between where I caught my breath and reminded myself that I could do this.
And now, motherhood. The ground beneath me is softer—nursery rugs, playground mulch, the carpet where I sit cross-legged with a toddler on my lap. My world became both smaller and infinite, measured in first steps, bedtime stories, and the quiet hush of a sleeping house. I take fewer of these photos now, but when I do, they mean more. These are the days I know I’ll look back on and wonder how they slipped away so fast.
From where I stand, life keeps changing. The routines that feel permanent will fade, replaced by new ones I haven’t even imagined yet. But for now, I capture what I can, hold onto the moments, and keep my feet firmly planted in the present.
