What "Fairly Seasoned, Sort of Sassy" Actually Means Now

As I've started interviewing and speaking with other professionals during my job search, I'm of course being asked what I've been doing for the past nine months. It would be easy to say that I started my own consulting firm and became an entrepreneur for two creative businesses. But the truth is, I think I finally figured out what it really means to be "fairly seasoned, sort of sassy."

When I came up with that tagline almost a year ago, I thought I knew what it meant to me and how it would translate to others. I am unapologetically a little sassy — it was something I decided to own instead of fight against, because ultimately it is who I am. I am OK if I am not everyone's cup of tea.

I was also confident that I was fairly seasoned, because I have lived a pretty full life up until now. I was an awkward child with social anxiety, a hard worker, a lost teenager who found herself in college, a career woman with all the trials and tribulations of a 33-year relationship with my life partner. I raised two beautiful, strong, and independent young women. So yes — I think all of that qualifies me for my seasoned era.

Professionally, I had spent the past 27 years building things inside organizations. Supply chains. Teams. Strategies. Frameworks. I knew I was good at it. But here's what I didn't fully understand until I stepped outside of it: I had been borrowing confidence from my title for a long time without realizing it.

When you take the title away — when it's just you and a crockpot and a farmers market table and a blank page — you find out pretty quickly who you really are.

On the positive side, I built a blog from scratch, developed a real brand voice, and wrote recipes, reviews, and essays that people actually read and responded to. I stood behind a table at Tractor Supply and sold baked goods to strangers who came back for more. I came in third at a city-wide Chili Cook-Off and felt a pride that, honestly, surprised me.

None of that came with a title. None of it had a performance review. It was just me, figuring out what I could do when no one had asked me to do it.

That's what seasoned means to me now. Not just experience. Tested. The kind of knowing that comes from doing something hard without a safety net and discovering you didn't need one as much as you thought.

But here is the other side of it — the thing we don't often tell others when they ask, "how's it going?" The quiet is complicated.

Some mornings I look out into my backyard and watch the deer moving along their paths through the woods and I think — this. This is the life. The coffee is hot, nothing is urgent, and the world is doing its thing without requiring anything from me. I feel grateful in a way I never had time to feel before.

Other mornings the quiet is just... loud. In a different way.

I won't pretend this chapter has been all backyard deer and fresh bread cooling on the counter. Some days I missed the rhythm of a full calendar, the energy of a team, the particular satisfaction of solving a hard problem with smart people. I got frustrated with the stillness. I questioned the path. I wondered if listening to my gut — which told me to bet on something different, even if I couldn't see exactly where it was leading — had been the right call.

It was. Even when it was hard.

What I didn't expect was how much this chapter would deepen my appreciation for the people already in my life.

My husband. My daughters. The ones who watched me figure this out in real time — who FaceTimed with me when I was energized, but also when I was depleted, and when I was both at the same time and couldn't explain why. I see them differently now. Not because they changed, but because I slowed down enough to actually look.

One of my daughters is getting married this year. I'm planning her bridal shower right now. I am in it — fully, joyfully, completely in it — in a way I'm not sure I could have been two years ago when my calendar belonged to everyone else first.

The sassy part hasn't changed much, for the record.

But I think it's gotten quieter and more confident at the same time — which is a combination I didn't know was possible. I used to wear my sassy like a shield. Now it feels more like a signature.

This chapter taught me something specific about myself: I know how to listen to my gut. And I know, looking back, that every time I did — even when it was uncomfortable, even when it didn't make immediate sense to anyone including me — it was right. That's not something I could have said with this kind of certainty nine months ago.

I know what I think. I know what I'm worth. I know which rooms I belong in.

And if any of that sounds familiar — if you're somewhere in the middle of your own quiet, complicated chapter — I just want you to know: the seasoning is happening. Even when it doesn't feel like it.

Fairly seasoned. Sort of sassy. Turns out it wasn't just a tagline.

It was a promise I was making to myself. And I'm keeping it.