Welcome to House of Crow and White — where parenting is sacred, chaos is expected, and dragging myself across the metaphorical carpet is just part of the curriculum.

This blog is my personal excavation site:
where I lovingly roast my own parenting,
dissect my conditioning like a frog in high school biology,
and put a flashlight (and occasionally a flamethrower) on the patterns I’m trying to break.

Not to slam anyone.
Not to shame the culture I was raised in.
And definitely not because I think I have it all figured out.

It’s because I’m sensitive — painfully, gloriously sensitive.
And after a lifetime of trying to toughen up and "be nice" and "just go along,"
I decided to aim that sensitivity like a laser instead of stuffing it down.

Here, I’m documenting what it feels like to raise a crow-hearted kid —
one who knows their "yes" and their "no,"
one who trusts their gut more than they trust adult approval,
one who won’t need thirty years of therapy just to say, "I don't want to wear socks today."

A lot of what you’ll find here is stitched together from the everyday mess of real parenting — but it’s also deeply inspired by the writings in The Book of the Small, written by my husband, Sarlon White (available now on Amazon).
His work reimagines sacred law through the eyes of raising a child — and trust me, it lit a bonfire under my old assumptions and made me want to build something better.

So here I am: dragging my old instincts into the light —
the baby-talking, the gold-star-chasing, the "put on a shirt or face exile" meltdowns —
not because I’m bashing anyone else,
but because I finally realized:

You can’t raise a free human while you’re still living inside a cage.

This blog is where I practice busting the locks off.
One confession at a time. (My own.)
One tiny holy rebellion at a time.
One spilled juice and forehead-to-fridge sigh at a time.

Bring your popcorn.
Bring your softness.
Bring your own tangled memories of "good kid" medals and "be quiet" rules.

We’re not here to be perfect.
We’re here to get real.
And maybe — just maybe — leave the world a little freer than we found it.

93, little storm-makers.