Coming Home to Dixie

Last week served as an unexpected reminder of how recently—alarmingly recently—women in this country were legally barred from doing many of the most basic things. Things like opening a bank account, signing a loan document, or making medical decisions for their children… unless their husband gave permission.

It’s easy to forget that history when, in our home, I’m the one who handles the logistics of life—the bills, the accounts, the planning, the paperwork. Jim and I have always worked in harmony that way. He’s the hands-on guy—fixing, building, lifting, solving mechanical mysteries—and I’m the one buried in documents and phone calls. It’s never been a power struggle. It’s just how we complement each other: he’s the brawn, and I’m the brains.

So, imagine my frustration after spending over an hour last week on the phone, navigating agency after agency trying to get our daughters’ health insurance transferred to Mississippi. Finally, I reached someone who gave me the answer.

“The issue,” he said, “is that your husband didn’t sign the application.”

I paused. “But I signed it. I’m their mother.”

“Yes, but the authorized representative listed is your husband, and we need his signature to complete the process.”

Jim and I stared at each other in disbelief. I could feel the irritation creep up my spine as I processed what he was saying. Apparently, it didn’t matter that I am their legal mother, or the one who made the call, or the one handling their medical appointments. It didn’t matter that I’m a practicing attorney. What mattered is that somewhere along the way, the system tagged my husband as the “authorized representative,” and now he had to give me permission to act on behalf of our children.

In 2025.

Growing up in the South, I knew that certain traditions held tight. But still, this felt like whiplash. I had flashbacks of conversations with my grandmother when I was first accepted into law school. She was proud—deeply proud—but I could tell there was an unspoken worry beneath her praise. As if she were silently asking, Is the world ready for a woman like you?

Even in the early 2000s, her concern wasn’t misplaced. I was the first female attorney ever hired at one of the law firms I worked for in California—and that was in the firm’s 20+ year history. At networking events, people regularly assumed I was the assistant. Over time, I’ve learned to navigate those assumptions—to let them play out just long enough for me to politely flip the narrative.

I tell my girls stories like this sometimes. Siena doesn’t believe me. “That didn’t really happen,” she says, eyebrows raised in disbelief. I smile and say, “It did. Not that long ago.” It’s hard for her to imagine a world where people questioned a woman’s ability to think, lead, or make decisions. And I pray that it always stays hard for her to imagine.

That’s why I keep telling these stories. Not to dwell in frustration—but to remind us how far we’ve come, and how fragile progress can be if we forget. And to remind myself, on those days when I feel buried under to-do lists and agency phone calls, that handling the “books” and the business of our lives isn’t just a personality trait—it’s a privilege my grandmother didn’t have.

🌸 Magnolia-Strong: Sweetness, Spirit, and Southern Friday Nights

This past Friday reminded me of the beautiful balance between being feminine and strong—something I want my daughters to grow up embodying. It’s a concept I’ve always admired, but since moving here to Mississippi, I see it everywhere. Southern women, especially, carry that duality with grace: soft like magnolia petals, yet rooted deep and steady. The magnolia flower, our state flower, is the perfect symbol—delicate and fragrant, but sturdy enough to weather storms.

Roslynn got to live out a piece of that strength and sweetness herself on Friday night as a “mini” cheerleader at the high school football game. She was so excited in the days leading up to it, practicing her little cheers and watching videos of the older girls. She loves sparkle and twirls and pom-poms, but she also loves climbing trees and racing the dogs across the field. She’s the very essence of this magnolia-hearted strength—soft-spoken yet bold, gentle but not afraid to leap into the action.

As I watched her on the field, standing with the big girls and mimicking their every move, I saw a glimpse of the young woman she’s becoming. There was this sense of belonging and bravery in her—cheering in front of a crowd, fully lit up from the inside out. Her joy was contagious, and I couldn’t help but think about how proud I am that she’s growing up here in a place that honors that blend of grit and grace.

There’s a lot we’re still adjusting to in our new life here. But moments like that—watching my daughter beam with pride and spirit—make it all feel worth it. I hope both my girls grow up knowing that strength doesn’t mean hardening, and femininity doesn’t mean weakness. You can be the hands that comfort and the hands that build. You can cheer and you can lead. You can be a magnolia.

Just Us Girls—for Now

Early Sunday morning, before the sun even hinted at rising, we made the long, quiet drive to the airport. The road was still, the skies still dark, and the girls were half-asleep in the back seat as we pulled up to the departure terminal. It was time to say goodbye—for now—as Jim flew back to California.

We still have things left behind: tools, equipment, some of Jim’s workshop gear, and household items we couldn’t fit on this first haul. So, this won’t be his only trip back; over the next year, he’ll need to return a few more times to slowly gather what remains of our old life. But this particular trip carries a different weight. He’ll also be helping his dad clean out the house and prepare it for sale. That house has been in the family for decades, so sorting through its contents will no doubt be emotional and exhausting.

He’ll be gone for at least a couple of weeks, and while the girls are already embracing the spirit of “just us girls,” there’s no denying we’ll miss him. Especially me.

In the ten years we’ve been together, we’ve rarely been apart for more than a weekend. This will be the longest stretch of time without him, and it’s already an adjustment. I’m now responsible for school drop-offs and pick-ups, morning and evening routines, and all the daily tasks that usually run a bit more smoothly with an extra set of hands.

And those hands? They’re very missed when you’ve got four cats, three dogs, two sheep, and a parakeet all relying on you to feed, medicate, and care for them—before your own first cup of coffee.

This morning, as I moved through the motions of food bowls and water tanks, of cleaning out the sheep pen and checking on Dale and Ernie, I felt the tiredness in my bones a little more than usual. Maybe it’s the emotional weight of his absence, or maybe it’s just the sheer volume of responsibility. Either way, it’s going to be a long couple of weeks.

And of course, they’re not just any couple of weeks—this stretch includes birthdays. Roslynn turns eleven on the 30th, and mine follows the very next day. We’ve always made a special tradition out of celebrating together, sharing cake and candles, a kind of built-in girls’ weekend.

This year, the best birthday gift we could ask for is for Jim to make it back in time to celebrate with us. That’s the birthday wish we tucked into our hearts as we waved goodbye at the airport.

In the meantime, we’ll hold things down here on the farm. We’ll manage the routines, the school runs, the bedtime hugs and the early morning chaos. We’ll laugh, and we’ll probably cry a little too. But we’ll get through it like we always do—with a little grit, a lot of love, and just enough Southern stubbornness to push through the tired days.