Members Night this Thursday (Feb 19) from 5–7 PM 🤍 ✨ 50% off colored tags ✨ 20% off retail ✨ 10% off apothecary Plus free gifts with purchase, refreshments, and a signature drink

I’ve felt extra grippy lately. Going into November, I had a clear plan: be credit-card free, have cash in my pocket, and head into 2026 with a solid plan. I was so energized that I decided we would close the shop for four full days—revamp the space and launch Whatnot to help fund our nonprofit mission. We started strong. There was excitement and momentum. But I spent so much of my energy helping with shows. Boxing, bagging, learning, pulling, cleaning—that I never finished revamping the store. I didn’t even finish the task. When we reopened, it was still messy. So messy that I started apologizing to everyone who walked through the door. I kept adding more shows just to shrink the mess instead of actually solving it. I am grateful we’re learning auctions. Weeks like this—when ice shuts everything down—having a creative way to make money matters and itallowed us to at least cover payroll. That matters more than pride. But internally, I hadn’t been thankful. I hadn’t been optimistic. I hadn’t made the best use of my time. I was at the shop every day, but much of it was meetings, Zoom calls, statements, and website work—not the tangible progress I expected. That disconnect is where my perspective started to slip. Then the same night we were supposed to have our first freeze, our water pump went out. When I checked the breaker, I smelled smoke. The wires behind the wall were smoking. Thanks to my dad teaching me just enough about electrical work, I was able to change the breaker and restore power—but the pump itself was shot. We were without water for four days. We were lucky. We have gym memberships, so we drove five miles an hour to take showers. We still went to work. We stayed productive. We kept going. Today, my 70-year-old dad insisted on helping—even though his own pipes were frozen and he didn’t have water either. My mom and dad drove from Kerrville and spent five hours helping me and my son replace the pump. And this is the moment that changed me. I watched my dad struggling but here to save the day. He has heart damage from a heart attack a few years ago and this was the first time I’ve ever really seen him struggle. He’s always been the strong, capable, working man—the fixer.

Back when I was working at Bath & Body Works in Kerrville—during the short-lived season when the company carried makeup—I learned one of my biggest lessons about not judging a circumstance by its cover. We sold everything from lip gloss to mascara, all under $8. One day, a little girl—maybe 8 or 10 years old—walked in and started filling a basket. She was deliberate, studying each item before adding it in. At first, I thought she was just playing, but her choices looked serious enough that I decided to step in. I went over to help and asked who she was with. She told me she had come with her parents but didn’t give me much more. I tried to gently guide her—asking what colors she liked, if she was shopping for herself or for gifts, and trying to figure out what her budget might be without embarrassing her. Each time I circled back, she had added more. By the time she finished the first basket, she picked up a second. Then a third. These weren’t careless grabs—she was pausing, comparing shades, and making thoughtful choices. Still, in my mind, all I could see was a mountain of product I’d have to put back. When she finally walked out without saying a word, leaving three overflowing baskets behind, I was frustrated beyond belief. I gave her about 30 minutes to come back, then reluctantly began putting things away, starting with the lotions so I could concentrate later on the 150+ tiny pieces of makeup. That’s when she returned—with her parents. Her dad chuckled and explained everything. She was headed to Camp Waldemar in Hunt—a very well-to-do girls camp about 30 minutes away. She wanted to bring matching gifts for her friends from the previous year. Her parents hadn’t set any parameters, so she simply pulled everything she thought would work and waited to show them when they arrived. And here’s the kicker—they bought every single thing she had picked. All but the lotions I had already put back. The total? Just over $800. On items averaging $5 each—between 150 and 170 products.

Found this little gem and styled it pretty. Old vintage tray that I picked up at Vinew. Wiped it down, painted it and styled it for my kitchen (took me an hour)🛍️💐

I’ll never forget the day I pulled an urn out of a donation box—and realized it still had ashes inside. For a moment I stood there, frozen, wondering, “How in the world did I go from a world where I literally had to count and make sure I was wearing 12 fashion pieces a day, earning trips to Mexico and free iPads… to now going through donation bins filled with everything from treasures to trash?” It was one of those surreal moments where life feels upside down. In my corporate fashion career, image mattered. The dress code wasn’t just about looking sharp—it was about full fashion, head to toe, every accessory in place. Now my days have quickly shifted to workout gear, ponytails, and lots of caffeine. No more high heels—just comfort, grit, and a whole lot of faith. And yet, somehow, in the middle of the chaos, I knew I was exactly where I needed to be. Because this Liberty Hill resale boutique isn’t about glamour or perks—it’s about purpose. It’s about building community, giving new life to old things, and creating a space where every idea in my chaotic brain has room to breathe. God has opened doors in the most unexpected ways, and while the path doesn’t look like I imagined, it feels right. This is the beauty of running a small business off the beaten path. Every day is unpredictable, every item has a story, and every struggle reminds me that faith and resilience matter more than appearances. From ashes to inspiration—literally—I wouldn’t trade this journey for anything.