I never imagined grief would lead me here—standing at the Cedar Crest Sunday Market, flour still dusting my hands, watching strangers become neighbors.
After losing my partner Kalyn to senseless violence, I had to rebuild everything. The most lost I've ever felt became the doorway to discovering what really matters. When you're completely shattered inside and out, you start searching for meaning behind life. That search led me to a simple question: how can I follow my highest excitement right now? The answer surprised me—making sourdough bread.
What started as healing through kneading dough became a bridge back to community. At our local farmer's market, I found something I'd been missing: authentic connection. Real people doing real work, no masks, no pretense. They caught me when I broke down on the roadside with a blown tire. A customer waiting for her bread called her son-in-law, and my problem was solved while I sold loaves. That's the old school American vibe we're losing—people giving you the shirt off their back simply because you're their neighbor.
Now I help run the Sunday Market, creating space for others to make a living doing what they love. We host blanket drives, support food pantries, welcome everyone regardless of age, race, or politics. Because when you come together over real food and shared purpose, differences dissolve. You discover what you have in common.
My daughters inspire me—I want them to see that life is too short not to live with joy and purpose. Losing young lives taught me this life is limited. So I choose to build something that heals: a place where isolated people find connection, where hidden passions emerge, where dreams come alive.
The market didn't just save me. It showed me we save each other. That's what I get from giving—the reminder that we're all reflections of one another, and in lifting up my community, I lift myself.
After losing my partner Kalyn to senseless violence, I had to rebuild everything. The most lost I've ever felt became the doorway to discovering what really matters. When you're completely shattered inside and out, you start searching for meaning behind life. That search led me to a simple question: how can I follow my highest excitement right now? The answer surprised me—making sourdough bread.
What started as healing through kneading dough became a bridge back to community. At our local farmer's market, I found something I'd been missing: authentic connection. Real people doing real work, no masks, no pretense. They caught me when I broke down on the roadside with a blown tire. A customer waiting for her bread called her son-in-law, and my problem was solved while I sold loaves. That's the old school American vibe we're losing—people giving you the shirt off their back simply because you're their neighbor.
Now I help run the Sunday Market, creating space for others to make a living doing what they love. We host blanket drives, support food pantries, welcome everyone regardless of age, race, or politics. Because when you come together over real food and shared purpose, differences dissolve. You discover what you have in common.
My daughters inspire me—I want them to see that life is too short not to live with joy and purpose. Losing young lives taught me this life is limited. So I choose to build something that heals: a place where isolated people find connection, where hidden passions emerge, where dreams come alive.
The market didn't just save me. It showed me we save each other. That's what I get from giving—the reminder that we're all reflections of one another, and in lifting up my community, I lift myself.