The Creative Nest

Let me introduce you to my latest financial strategy—one that’s bold, unconventional, and honestly… a little unhinged. It involves cash, tin cans, and a backyard that is now working harder than most savings accounts. Here’s the situation. Interest rates? Meh. Inflation? Rude. Banks? Judgy. So I thought, why not take matters into my own hands and go old school—like really old school. I’m talking about cold, hard cash tucked safely into tin cans and strategically buried around the yard like I’m starring in my own low-budget treasure hunt. Now before you panic, this is not just random digging and hoping for the best. Oh no. This is a system. Each can has its own “category.” Emergency fund? Buried by the tree. Fun money? Somewhere near the fence. “Do not touch unless everything goes sideways”? That one is in a location so secure even I might struggle to find it later. Financial discipline meets mild chaos. And let’s talk about accessibility. Sure, traditional savings accounts let you tran...

There are moments when you realize that holding onto “what’s accurate” matters a lot less than holding onto connection. Sitting across from someone you love, listening to a story that doesn’t quite line up the way it used to, you’re given a quiet choice—correct it, or simply be there with them. And sometimes the most loving thing you can do is smile, follow along, and meet them in that version of the moment. Not because you don’t notice the differences, but because you do—and you choose kindness anyway. Caregiving in these moments isn’t about fixing or guiding someone back to where they were. It’s about stepping gently into where they are now. It asks for patience, softness, and a willingness to let go of needing everything to make sense. And surprisingly, there can still be laughter. Real, shared laughter. The kind that reminds you that even as things change, the connection doesn’t disappear—it just takes on a different shape. There’s a quiet strength in choosing compassion over cor...

Somewhere along the way, adulthood quietly added a new responsibility to the list: video repair appointments. And I would just like to know… who approved this? There was a time—not that long ago—when something broke, and a person showed up, toolbox in hand, ready to fix it. Simple. Clean. Efficient. Now? Now we schedule a video call and suddenly I’m holding my phone like a camerawoman while being gently coached through what is apparently my role in the repair process. This all started with a bed frame that hasn’t worked properly since day one. So naturally, the solution was not “we’ll send someone out,” but instead, “let’s hop on a video call so you can show us the problem.” Show you the problem? I live with the problem. I am the problem at this point. “Can you angle your camera a little lower?” “Can you zoom in on that part?” “Can you try pressing that again?” I’m sorry… are we filming a documentary or fixing furniture? There is something wildly humbling about standing there, phone ...