Jess.Sayin.....

  In the fifth grade, I joined the band. Not because I had a passion for music. Not because I felt called. But because my friends signed up and I thought holding an instrument case would immediately make me interesting. I chose the clarinet. Why?  Because it looked harmless.  Not too loud.  Not too flashy.  A woodwind felt like a safe commitment for a child who had no idea that breathing, finger placement, posture, and rhythm were all expected  simultaneously . Spoiler alert. They were. Band practice was held in a room that smelled faintly of reeds, metal chairs, and crushed dreams. All around me were kids who somehow produced actual music.  Notes.  Melodies.  Harmony. I, on the other hand, produced sounds. Not notes. Not music. Just… sounds. Imagine a wounded goose trying to whistle. That was me. My band teacher—patient, kind, and clearly tired—eventually called me aside. After listening to one particularly ambitious attempt at what I was su...

  When my dad, James Andrews, walked me into First Troy Finance, I was a single teenage mom who felt like I was failing at life—even though I was doing everything I knew how to do to survive. I was exhausted in my bones.   Working as a waitress at Country BBQ, my hands always smelling like smoke and sauce, my feet aching before the shift even started.  I was trying to go to college, trying to be a good mom, trying to grow up faster than I ever planned to.  Every decision felt heavy because someone else depended on me now. I was learning how to…..life.  And that day, my car payment was due. All I had was change. Not extra change. Not “rounding up” change. But the kind you gather one coin at a time because quitting isn’t an option.  Tips folded into apron pockets.  Quarters dug out from between couch cushions.  Pennies I almost left behind because I didn’t want anyone to see how close to the edge I really was. My dad knew exactly what I was holding....

  January 8th is always a hard day for me. No matter how many years pass, my body remembers before my mind does.  There’s a heaviness that settles in my chest when I wake up, a quiet ache that doesn’t need explaining.  I know what day it is before I look at the calendar. Twelve years ago, on this day, I walked into an appointment expecting reassurance.  I walked out carrying silence. There’s no heartbeat. Words like that don’t just land—they echo. They follow you home.  They sit beside you in the quiet.  They replay in your head when the world keeps moving but yours suddenly stops. I was thirteen weeks pregnant.  Far enough along to have imagined names. Far enough to picture holidays, birthdays, first days of school.  Far enough to have let myself believe this baby was real and staying. And just like that, everything I had pictured disappeared. What surprised me most wasn’t just the grief—it was the guilt. Heavy, relentless, unforgiving guilt. I s...