Samantha Branch

Four years ago, I embarked on a journey to unlock something inside of myself that felt buried under a pile of rubble. On a whim, I signed up for an online course designed to help me unearth the dreams I had locked inside of me. Optimistic but slightly skeptical, I plunged headfirst into a four-week dream scavenge. Many in the course had lofty dreams of writing a book or starting a small business. My goal, the thing I wanted most for myself, was to have friends. Sure, I had plenty of acquaintances. I interacted with wonderful people on a regular basis, but when it came to true vulnerability and allowing others to see who I really was at my core, I was locked up and that door was deadbolted. Going through that course and tackling my “dream” by coming up with real ways to build community in my life kickstarted some real changes for me and liberated a newfound confidence in me. I decided I’d create a book club and invited several people to join it, knowing full well that I lacked the leade

Having my first child at the almost shocking age of 23 (are we living in Biblical times or what?!) meant that NONE of my friends had babies at the same time as me. My friends weren’t even married. They were out living their best single lives, jet-setting off to Mexico on the weekends. (Ok just kidding they were broke and paying back school loans from our overpriced private university education, but they had the freedom to road trip to exciting locales like Dallas or Lubbock, Texas.) So, it never occurred to me to compare myself to other moms. Not to mention, this was way back in the Dark Ages before social media had really taken off.  I was blissfully unaware that I was failing at motherhood by not providing educational field trips and elaborate sensory experiences for my toddler. He was, however, well informed when it came to the drama happening in Genoa City because we rarely missed the 11am showing of  The Young and the Restless . He couldn’t tell you who the President of the United

I drive up and see her standing with her friends out front, her cropped shirt barely passing the high school dress code. She sees me, giving me only a side glance at most, but pretends that she doesn’t because she wants to keep talking to her friends. I sit in my car, growing more impatient with each passing minute, fingers drumming on the steering wheel as cars begin to pile up behind me. Desperate to avoid a traffic jam situation, I text her.  “Hey, I’m here.”  She replies, “Yeah, I see you.”  She is literally texting me back instead of walking to the car. Sometimes I just cannot.  “I’ve got to move!” In no rush, she finishes up her conversation and then casually walks to the car like I haven’t been waiting, like there’s not about to be a mutiny happening in this carline.  “Hey!” She’s as cool as a cucumber; meanwhile my frustration is borderline crazed lunatic level. She settles into the passenger seat and beaming says, “Mom, I only have four more years at home!”  The frustration fa