Blistered Shishito & Corn Salad with Grilled Fajita Chicken

If you looked at my bank account, you might not call me rich.

But sit with me a while—on my porch, maybe, with the wind tugging softly at the trees—and you’ll see that I am wealthier than I ever dreamed I’d be.

My wealth is not in stocks or properties, but in the joy of shared experiences, the warmth of hugs, the laughter that echoes through shared meals, and the quiet strength of those who truly know my soul.

I’ve lived long enough to know the thrill of a new car fades faster than the echo of a child’s giggle down a hallway.

I’ve learned that money can buy nice sheets, but it can’t give you someone to crawl in beside you when the world feels too heavy to carry.

And I’ve discovered that real wealth isn’t what you own, but the intangible riches that enrich your life and soul.

It’s who you hold—and who holds you.

There’s a richness in sitting across the table from someone who has seen you break and still believes in your rising.

There’s luxury in being known—in your quiet moments, your messy middle, your stubborn grace.

And there’s deep, deep joy in belly-laughing until tears fall over stories you’ve told a hundred times but somehow never tire of.

I am wealthy because I know what it is to survive what should have broken me. The resilience I've gained from life's challenges is a treasure that no amount of money can buy.

Because I’ve stood in a kitchen barefoot and bruised, stirring soup for people who didn’t know they were saving me just by sitting down.

Because I’ve watched sunrises after sleepless nights and still found the strength to start over.

Because I’ve loved big, lost hard, and chosen to love again.

I carry my treasures in photo albums with torn edges, in voicemails I’ll never delete, in birthday cards with handwriting that has outlived the hands that wrote them.

And if you ask me where my faith fits into it all—I’ll tell you it’s the thread holding this patched-up quilt of a life together, weaving through every experience, every relationship, and every moment of joy and sorrow.

It’s not about rules or pews.

It’s the whisper that says, “You’ll be okay,” when I’m standing in the dark.

It’s the nudge to keep showing up, keep loving, and keep trusting that the messy, complicated beauty of life, with all its imperfections and uncertainties, is enough—more than enough.

I have faith that the little moments matter.

That kindness leaves ripples.

That the people who walk beside us—whether for a lifetime or just one unforgettable season—are sacred gifts.

Yes, I have a second home—one that’s heard as many prayers as the wind through the pines and seen as many tears as rain on the mountain stone. I have diamonds, too—but none of them shine brighter than the light I see in my husband’s eyes when I walk into a room. And I occasionaly wear designer clothes—but what really wraps around me is a lifetime of stories: stitched with loss, lined with laughter, and tailored by time.

Because no matter what hangs in my closet or sparkles on my hand, the richest parts of my life will always be the moments money could never buy.

If you’re chasing wealth, I hope you find it.

But I also hope you realize it might already be sitting at your kitchen table, calling you just to hear your voice, or holding your hand in the waiting room.

That maybe you’re richer than you think.

And if you’re still building that life—still hoping for deeper connections, slower days, or simply someone to understand you—I want you to know it’s never too late.

Some of the most precious memories are yet to come.

Because the heart doesn’t care about interest rates or retirement portfolios.

The heart remembers love.

And love, my dear reader, is the greatest wealth of all.