I'm Baaaack!

Well, it’s been a hot minute, hasn’t it? First off, my apologies for going radio silent and leaving you all hanging. Life threw me a few curveballs (and a couple of dumbbells) that pulled me away from writing for a bit. I had a hip replacement—yep, that happened—and somewhere along the recovery journey, I randomly decided to dive headfirst into bodybuilding. Why not, right? So, I competed in my very first bikini contest. Not only did I survive the intense workouts and meal prep, but I walked away with first place in the bikini tall division and second overall!

But honestly, that’s just scratching the surface. Josh also took on a 120-day remote detail position—which, spoiler alert, didn’t end up being all that “remote” after all. We managed to squeeze in two trips to the Bahamas to watch the Friars play college hoops (Go Friars!) and even made a magical visit to Disney, because, let’s be real, we’re just big kids with credit cards.

We spent the holidays with family in Rhode Island, as is tradition. And amidst all the joy, we also faced some heavy moments. We said goodbye to a loved one—Josh’s grandmother—and almost in the same breath, we dressed to the nines and attended a beautiful banquet where Josh’s dad, Kevin, received the Mason Lankford Fire Service Leadership Award. Oh, and I turned the big 4-0 that night, too. The kids even got up on stage to recite the Pledge of Allegiance with their “Da.” It was one of those nights where emotion hits you all at once—and lingers long after.

We’ve been cheering at dance competitions while I continue to carve out my niche here in Florida—grooming the occasional dog and helping others with fitness and nutrition coaching. Both have brought me a surprising amount of joy and purpose. Oh, and we adopted my dream puppy. His name is Bucket. Yes, Bucket.

But it hasn’t all been pooches, palm trees, and protein shakes. There have been some seriously tough stretches. I’ve pulled long hours solo-parenting, often feeling like I’m running on fumes. There’s been frustration, stress, and a growing unease about the future of the wildfire world. The uncertainty, the politics, the burnout—it’s a lot. Sometimes, too much.

Yet still, I am here. We’re here. Life keeps moving.

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Rewind to 2015:

The year started with a gut-punch: Josh didn’t get the job with his old fire crew in Utah, despite it being his fourth time applying. A simple clerical error in the application process sent his name to the wrong pile, disqualifying him before he was even considered. That was the final straw. We decided right then and there—we were done with Utah and open to wherever the road might lead, as long as it meant forward progress.

With fire season approaching, we were once again trying to figure out where to call home. Should we stay together in Colorado, or spend another season apart while I stayed back in Utah? The area where Josh had been stationed wasn’t exactly our dream spot—in fact, it was uncomfortably close to the place I’d run off to back in 2011 when we had just started dating. But being separated for yet another season just didn’t sit right with either of us. So, we made the call: sell the house in Utah and move to that tiny, tucked-away town on Colorado’s Western Slope. Never in a million years did I think I’d end up back there.

The plan was to live in Colorado until Josh’s season ended, then pack up and move again across the country to Rhode Island for our wedding, honeymoon, and the holidays. What came after that? No clue. You’d think we’d be getting better at rolling with the chaos by then, learning to take life as it came… but let’s just say, we were still practicing.

All the blood, sweat, and tears I’d poured into renovating our home finally paid off—it went under contract just three days after listing. The problem? We still hadn’t found a place to live. Turns out, finding a short-term rental that allowed two dogs and a cat in a remote Colorado town is basically the housing version of a needle in a haystack. Ready or not, it was time to pack up and go.

We sold or donated as much as we could and shoved the rest into a storage unit near Josh’s base. With nowhere else to go, we crammed ourselves—and all three animals—into a room at the La Quinta, praying it would only be for a few nights. Hotel bills piled up fast. Josh even tried negotiating a weekly rate with the manager (we were desperate), but no dice.

We searched everywhere: Craigslist ads, local newspapers, word of mouth, even bunk housing at the base—nothing. And we were in that awkward sweet spot: too far from the ski towns to afford them, and too broke to compete with tourists for short-term leases. The rentals we could afford? No pets allowed.

Then, finally—a miracle. We found a tiny rental in the middle of what can only be described as beautiful nowhere. We all but got on our knees begging the owners to let us stay with our pets. It wasn’t perfect, but it was home—for now.

We moved in with just the essentials, leaving the rest in storage for whenever we could figure out what came next. I was still working remotely for a company based in Utah, making weekly or monthly trips back to Salt Lake to check in and work on-site. Josh reported to duty the moment we were somewhat settled—and was promptly sent out to fight fire. Honestly, the timing of it all was eerily perfect.

That summer turned out to be a doozy for wildfire. The Valley Fire in California became one of the worst in state history, destroying hundreds of homes and claiming lives. Fires across the country stretched firefighting resources to the brink. In Alaska, dry and warm conditions created the perfect storm, and Josh was sent north for what became the longest assignment we’d experienced—five weeks.

Josh was buried in work. If he wasn’t actively on a fire, he was prepping for the next. He was rarely available to think or talk about much else. I, meanwhile, dove headfirst into planning a Rhode Island wedding. Coordinating vendors, making invitations, table numbers, décor—you name it—all from thousands of miles away. I collected aspen twigs to make moss-covered photo frames for table numbers. Rustic mountain wedding in a coastal RI town, DIY style. I kept myself sane with workouts and hikes throughout the nearby Colorado Rockies.

One day, my dog Ranger and I stumbled across a wild turkey. And let me tell you—those things are no joke. At first, Ranger, who’s a 90-pound mix of pit bull and Great Dane, tried to act like a total tough guy. Hackles raised, chest puffed out, full-on macho dog energy. That is, until the turkey—this feathered beast with what had to be a 6-7 foot wingspan—charged at us. And just like that, Ranger tucked tail and bolted like Scooby-Doo.

So there I was, gripping a fist-sized rock, totally prepared to go full caveman on this bird if I had to. The turkey spread its wings wider, trying to size me up. I held my ground, locked eyes with it like we were in a wild standoff.

Then, in classic Ranger fashion, he came charging back—barking, hackles up, like he remembered he was, in fact, a large dog. The turkey puffed up and acted like it was ready to throw down. And what did Ranger do? Immediately turned and ran. Again.

This ridiculous showdown continued on loop for what felt like ten minutes. Ranger charges. Turkey stands its ground. Ranger retreats. I stand there like an idiot, stunned, rock in hand.

Eventually, the turkey got bored of the drama, flapped its massive wings, and flew off into a tree—probably to tell its bird friends about the time it absolutely owned a Great Dane mix and a woman wielding a rock. That, folks, was my most intense Colorado wildlife encounter. Nature’s majestic, isn’t it?

When I wasn’t dodging aggressive poultry that season, I worked, exercised, and focused on our wedding and future move. By then, I felt like I was really learning the ins and outs of being a partner to a wildland firefighter.

Lessons From Fire Life:

• INDEPENDENCE. I had to run on my own schedule, knowing full well that trying to plan anything around Josh during fire season was basically inviting Murphy’s Law over for dinner. I had to be okay doing things alone. We’d see each other when we saw each other—according to fire.

• LET THE DOGS SLEEP IN THE BED. Being alone so much messes with your head. I’d get scared at night or even out hiking solo. My defense system? Dogs. If they were calm, I knew I was okay. If not, well, at least I’d have a little warning.

• LONG DISTANCE IS FOREVER A THING. It didn’t matter where we lived—if there were fires, Josh wouldn’t be home. I had to accept that our relationship would always have a long-distance component for weeks (or months) every year. I learned to lower my expectations during fire season and raise them again when it ended. My honey-do lists turned into “I’ll just do it” lists.

• THE WORRY NEVER STOPS. That season brought a new level of paranoia. What if he gets hurt? What if he dies before the wedding? What if he doesn’t get to pass on his name—one I was so proud to inherit? What if we never get the chance to have a child that reminds me of him? Dark thoughts, I know—but how do you stop your mind from going there when you’re constantly alone and the person you love is out facing danger? The worst part was when he was somewhere with no cell service. Every day that passed without a word, my anxiety would spike. People always say, “No news is good news,” but I promise you—it never felt that way.