A Mom Conference, Really?
Mom 2.0 Summit Recap (Part 1)
A few months ago, my friend Tara suggested that I go with her to the Mom 2.0 conference in Orlando. She had invited me to the same event last year, and I had given her my usual too busy, too expensive, not for me routine. This year, her suggestion was a little closer to an exhortation—more of an I think you need to do this.
I trust Tara implicitly; she knows me, my story, and believes in me—possibly more than I believe in myself. I knew she wasn’t just suggesting a fun girls' trip, but it took me actually taking the risk of going to realize she was nudging me toward a version of myself I had almost forgotten existed—someone with options, with agency, with something to say.
If I’m really honest, the primary reason I trust Tara’s advice is that she has known me since I was in what I very non-affectionately call: the pit.
THE PIT. You kind of need capital letters to talk about it. During that time in my life, I was in a valley so low and so consuming that all I could do was be in the pit. I couldn’t dream about anything. I couldn’t hope for much more than surviving another day. Any margin I had was spent trying to read books, go to therapy, or find someone who could help me get out.
I couldn’t imagine a life with dreams or business goals, where I did things for myself. Letting myself stop to consider more or different would have only compounded my grief—or filled me with envy for the peaceful or easier lives of others. The pit demands your minute-by-minute presence even when you long to look ahead to an easier future.
You are desperate for hope.
The path out of the pit is never a straight shot, and there is no shortcut to healing deep wounds. I wish I could offer a roadmap to others for how to climb out—but I can only speak to my own experience. I’m well aware that some people stay in the pit forever. At some point—after years of therapy, support, research, prayer, and community—the daily darkness that surrounded me began to show twinges of light. Eventually, I realized I was standing somewhere I never thought I’d be again: at a crossroads, with real options in front of me.
Still, I had not arrived at this crossroads as the same person I was before. Shit happens in the darkest valleys. I was lucky; I found people and resources who helped me face some of my most broken places, and I learned to talk about things I had spent most of my life trying to push away. I did a lot of really hard work.
I realized I wasn’t coming out of the pit as the same person who fell into it: the girl who had spent her life trying to diminish herself and not take risks or attract attention began to believe that she had something to say, to give, to do.
To be clear, I don’t ascribe to any sort of everything happens for a reason bullshit. I am—thank you, Kate Bowler—more of an everything happens kind of girl.
What I have longed for, deep in my body—even in my darkest hours—is that the painful experiences of my life would somehow be metabolized into something I could offer as goodness to the world. I no longer doubt that I have something to offer; the part I’ve struggled with is articulating what that offering is.
All of my closest, safest friends have heard me ask this question over the past few years. They have helped me process and dream and have allowed me the discomfort of turning the attention on myself when I vulnerably ask, “Can you help me figure out what I should do next?” or “Can you tell me what you see?”
OOF. I feel the discomfort in my body even thinking about how hard it has been to ask those questions—even to my safest of circles. I think about how much work it’s taken to give voice to those thoughts and fears. There is so much talk right now about vulnerability and authenticity, but let me be very clear: actually being vulnerable and authentic is unbelievably scary and difficult.
Two springs ago, my friends helped me decide to take the risk of becoming certified in trauma care through The Allender Center. That experience changed my life. It has now been almost a full year since I completed that certification, and every single day since, I’ve asked God to show me what’s next.
And guys, God told me in plain English exactly what to do.
Just kidding.
You know how God has shown me what to do? In conversations. In paying attention. In reading. In listening. In being still. In moving forward. In launching. In stopping. In doing and in resting. In laughter and in tears. In breathing. In believing my body. In trusting my gut.
The hard work of being a person isn’t glamorous. Some days, my purpose is really clear. On others, it’s unbelievably foggy. Some days, it looks like getting on a plane, checking into a hotel, putting on a name tag, and going down an escalator into a room filled with strangers—choosing to walk up to someone at the coffee station and say, “I don’t really know why I’m here.”
And then hearing, over and over again, “I don’t really either, but I’m so glad I am.”
After Mom 2.0, I still don’t have a five-year plan, but I know this: I want to keep telling the truth, walking with others, and building something that helps us all feel a little less alone. I love what I’m doing here on Substack, and I have a million ideas for things I want to write, share, and create. I love my little Instagram community and how it’s grown into a space where we talk about real things and share burdens together.
My time in Orlando was filled with reminder after reminder that the path I’m on isn’t a straight line—but it’s the one I want to keep traveling. I experienced generosity—an abundance of whatever is the opposite of gatekeeping. Can you imagine the power of the harnessed kindness and collective joy of a room full of women offering their whole-hearted selves to the world for the sake of themselves and their families? Women who are willing to take risks, admit mistakes, and embrace nuance in a world where we don’t all make the same decisions about screen time or breastfeeding or how much sugar to give our kids?
You can’t sit in a room with Brené effing Brown and hear her say “Dare to Lead probably should’ve been a pamphlet instead of a book” and not feel like maybe you’ll be okay if you make a mistake or the wrong move once in a while too.
These are the same women taking chances on their businesses, standing up for justice, and supporting causes that will make the world better for all of us—because, as we all know, there is no such thing as other people’s children.
I’ve spent so much of my life feeling a low simmer of competition toward other women—a scarcity mindset that said there wasn’t a seat for me at the table. A comparison game where I always came out ahead or behind: someone prettier, smarter, skinnier, sillier, funnier. I’m done with that (or at least I’m naming it now).
What I know is that every woman has her own story—her own collection of experiences, traumas, and dreams that she brings to the world. And by the time someone is ready to show up in the world as a healthy-ish human, it has almost always taken years of excruciating effort. No one puts their time in the pit in an Instagram carousel. We rarely see the small, painful, slow, and sometimes boring work it takes to grow.
If I had shown up at Mom 2.0—or any retreat or conference—without going through my time in the pit, it would have been okay. There’s no right or wrong way to show up as someone who wants to make a difference in the world; there are just lots of different ways of getting there. I’m learning to trust that the really hard parts and the beautiful parts are all part of what brought me to this point—even the courage it takes, right now, to not know what’s next and still take some really big risks.
If there’s one thing I want you to hear, it’s this: you don’t have to be fully healed or perfectly clear to take the next step. Your story matters now—even if you’re not ready to engage with it. I wish I had believed that more deeply when it was happening to me.Whether you’re in the pit, just out of it, or not sure what in the hell you’re doing—you are not disqualified. You are not alone. You are not forgotten. You belong.
My time in Orlando reminded me of these things—and reminded me that these are truths I want to keep sharing with others. I had the best time.
Who’s coming with me to Austin next year?
