The Weight of a Lifetime

I have been aware of my weight for as long as I can remember. It has been the constant hum in the background of my life, shaping how I see myself and how I move through the world. As a teenager, I read books about anorexia not to understand the devastation it caused, but to study how the girls did it. That hunger for control became part of my own story.

Over the years, I have lost weight, gained it back, and lost it again. Through every phase, one thing never quieted—the food noise in my head. When I was training for a bodybuilding competition, I went to bed crying from hunger. I spent my days thinking about cheat meals and counting down the hours until I could eat something off-plan. When the competition ended, I got pregnant almost immediately. Not because I felt the clock ticking, but because I wanted an excuse to eat without shame.

I don’t blame the fashion industry for my obsession, and I don’t fully blame my mom, though there are moments when I wonder. I think most women want to look and feel their best, and when you work hard in the gym or in any form of exercise, you want to see the payoff. But abs are made in the kitchen, and that truth can be far more brutal than the hardest workout. You cannot out-train a bad diet or poor choices over time.

This time, I approached it differently. I made my own rules and my own plan. No coach, no strict meal plan, no macro tracker telling me what to do. I’ve learned enough about nutrition and my own body to guide myself. I still have moments where I am hungry, or I trade something I love for something that serves my goals better, but the results are worth it.

What frustrates me is the growing narrative that women should reject the desire to be small because it somehow means we are rejecting our power. I am the smallest I have ever been, and I am also the most powerful I have ever felt. My confidence fills more space than ever before , and it has nothing to do with the square inches of my body.

This is my edit.
It’s not about shrinking to please the world.
It’s about building a body and a life I am proud to live in.
It’s about strength that shows on the outside and runs even deeper inside.

The Sobriety Edit: How One Change Rewrote My Social Life

A year ago, I decided to take a break from drinking. At first, it was an experiment. I wanted to see what it would feel like to go without alcohol and, honestly, I wanted to lose a little weight.

The changes were almost immediate. I was no longer bloated or tired, and I stopped waking up with that dull, sluggish feeling. My mornings felt lighter. My body responded in ways I did not expect with more energy, better sleep, and a clearer head. I started to feel amazing. Somewhere along the way, the urge to drink simply disappeared. When people asked if I missed it, I could honestly say no.

In the beginning, I could still be around alcohol without a problem. I would have a glass of wine here or an espresso martini there, but it was no longer a crutch. I could enjoy myself without feeling left out.

As the months passed and my sobriety continued, something shifted. Activities I used to enjoy such as concerts, pool days, and Friday nights out began to feel different. Not because I could not drink, but because I did not want to. When you are the only sober person in a crowd of people drinking, you notice things. Conversations get repetitive. Energy gets sloppy. I get bored.

I started to wonder why almost every social plan revolves around alcohol. Why do my husband and friends need a drink to relax and destress on a Friday? Why can we not spend a day by the pool with a Diet Coke and still have just as much fun?

This is not meant as a judgment on anyone else’s choices, although at times it feels like it is. I have caught myself opting out of things I used to love because I do not want to be the only one sober in a room of people who are not. The cultural pull toward drinking is constant, and it feels impossible to escape.

I have not solved this yet. I only know that after a year of happy sobriety, I have no desire to go back. I also have to face the truth that when I quietly edited out alcohol from my life, I may have also edited out certain relationships and parts of my social life as well.

Perhaps the next year is not about avoiding those moments, but about finding new ways to connect, to have fun, and to be fully present without the drink in my hand.

If this past year has taught me anything, it is that removing something from your life does not just change you. It changes the space you live in, the people you are with, and the way you see the world. Sometimes, it changes them in ways you never expected.

My Biggest Edit Ever

When I met my husband, he was 23.
I was ten and a half years older, had two kids, and was absolutely, positively done with marriage, babies, and homeownership.

I told him all of this on our first date.

“You’re sweet,” I said, “but I’m not the one. You’ve got your whole life ahead of you and I’m not interested in revisiting all those milestones.”

The universe, apparently, found that hilarious.

Three years later, we were married and working on our first baby together.

Fifteen years in, and I still have moments where it all feels surreal.
We’ve built a beautiful, loud, sometimes chaotic life in Tennessee — full of sarcasm, dog hair, belly laughs, and the kind of love that sneaks up on you when you least expect it.

Our family of six (now seven, thanks to my daughter’s boyfriend making regular appearances) spans 17 years in age from oldest to youngest.
And somehow, it works. We always roll together. Always close. Always loud.

My husband loves my older kids like his own. He shows up, takes care of everyone, and does it all with a dry sense of humor and a closet full of 2009 clothing.
He’s a self-made business owner. He finds fulfillment in providing — buying me the horse of my dreams, helping our kids with homes, and making sure I drive exactly what I want.
He rarely shops for himself, but gives without hesitation.

Our love language? Humor. Insults. Shoulder nudges. Fighting over the remote. And a whole lot of hugs.

When I reflect on my life — on The Klein-Smith Edit and all the reinventions along the way — he’s the biggest edit I ever made.

Fifteen years ago, when that beautiful man walked into a bar, I couldn’t have imagined this life.
Not this love. Not this family. Not this perfectly messy, loud, loving Tennessee home.

But I’ve learned that sometimes, the best things happen when you stop controlling the plan and start trusting the detour.

He was the detour.
And I’d take it again a hundred times over.

I Have Three Sons and One Daughter, But I’ll Always Be a Girl Mom

You’d think the numbers would make it obvious.

Three boys. One girl.
That makes me a boy mom, right?

But the truth is, I’ve never really felt like one.
I’ve always been a girl mom at heart.

My daughter and I have been doing lunch, nails, and shopping since she was old enough to sit in a salon chair. She’s grown up understanding the power of well-groomed brows, the peace of a fresh manicure, and the confidence that comes with keeping herself fit and put together. I’ve tried to show her that being female is something to be proud of. It’s in the way we carry ourselves, care for ourselves, and speak up for ourselves.

That kind of connection has always come naturally to me.

And yet, I’m also raising three sons.
Three completely different boys with their own personalities, interests, and quirks. I won’t be the mom who goes camping or throws a baseball. I’ll never memorize sports stats or pretend to love bugs. But we’ve carved out our own space.

My ten-year-old is a budding video editor. He’s been showing me how to use CapCut and patiently walking me through every transition and shortcut. I’m learning from him, and he loves being the expert. It’s our thing.

My youngest has a love for fashion. He puts thought into his outfits, takes pride in how things fit, and lights up when he gets something new to wear. He has an eye, and I love watching him express it.

And my oldest? He would rather go to Lululemon and pick out a new golf shirt. He knows what he likes, and he wears it well. We also work out together and have had that as ‘our thing’ since he was 12.

So no, I don’t fit the traditional image of a boy mom. But I’ve found real connection with each of my sons. It just looks different than what people expect.

Motherhood isn’t a box you check. It’s not a formula or a set of categories that always make sense.

It’s personal. It’s messy. It’s intuitive.
It’s about showing up in ways that feel true to you, and building relationships based on that truth.

That’s what The Klein-Smith Edit is about.
Not following someone else’s version of what your life should look like, but creating your own.
Not squeezing yourself into a label, but choosing your own definition.
Not forcing a narrative, but editing the one that no longer fits.

I’m a girl mom.
I’m a mom of boys.
I’m a woman who believes in raising kids with intention and owning who you are in the process.

And that, to me, is the best kind of motherhood.
Not perfect. Just real.

When Showing Up Isn’t Enough

I thought I was making progress. Then my trainer got on and told me the truth I hadn’t wanted to see.

“He’s on the forehand. You’re fighting for a distance that doesn’t exist. We need to fix the canter.”

And just like that, all the effort I’d been putting in felt like it was missing the mark.

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little crushed. I’ve been out there riding in the heat, sweating through my shirts, trying hard. I’ve also been in the gym, lifting heavy, training my own hind end. I’ve been working on flexibility. Strength. Mental clarity. I’ve been trying to put it all together and apply it in the saddle.

So to hear that my horse needed to go back to basics and that my struggle wasn’t just about my riding but about what I was being given to work with felt frustrating. Like all that effort wasn’t enough.

But the truth is, it wasn’t.

I’m strong. I’m committed. I’ve been showing up. But my horse needed help. And I did too. Not because I wasn’t trying hard enough. But because effort without alignment only gets you so far.

And that’s true in life, too.

We’ve all been in seasons where we’re doing everything “right.”
We’re pushing. Training. Working. Juggling. Trying.

But something still isn’t clicking. We can’t see the next step clearly. We’re reacting instead of riding forward. We feel stuck, even though we’re moving.

That feeling is one I know well. And for a long time, I told myself that if I just kept going, eventually things would come together. But now I know better.

Sometimes, showing up isn’t enough.
Sometimes, you need support. A new perspective. Someone who can get on the horse and say, "Of course you're stuck…this canter isn’t giving you anything to work with."

Sometimes, things have to be rebuilt from the back end. With rhythm. With balance. With intention.

That’s the work I do now. In the barn. In the gym. In my coaching.

Because I’ve learned that strength only works when it’s applied the right way. And change only sticks when it’s rooted in clarity. No amount of hustle replaces strategy. No amount of discipline replaces direction.

If you’re in a season where you’re trying, and it still feels like too much, I get it.

And if you’re starting to wonder whether the answer isn’t to try harder, but to try differently you’re not alone.

This is what The Klein-Smith Edit is for
To help you take what you already have; all that strength, wisdom, experience and shape it into something that actually works. Something sustainable. Something yours.

Let’s fix the canter. Let’s build from the back end. Let’s ride forward.

If you’re ready, I’d love to help.

The Sacred Discipline of Showing Up

The Sacred Discipline of the Gym: Why I Keep Showing Up

I’ve been working out since my teens. My mom used to drive me to the gym and pick me up later because I wasn’t old enough to get there myself. While most kids were sleeping in or hanging out at the mall, I was learning how to load plates, adjust a bench, and move weight. It made sense to me in a way nothing else did. And it stuck.

Lifting became my anchor. I’ve carried it through every chapter of my life. Through motherhood, divorce, career changes, and reinvention. I even trained for a bikini competition at 37. That process was brutal. It stripped away every excuse and taught me what discipline really means. I didn’t do it to win. I did it to prove to myself that I could finish something hard. And I did.

I’ve also had to rebuild after injury. Slowly. Intentionally. Rep by rep. It is humbling to feel weak in a body you once trusted. But that process teaches you respect. It teaches patience. It reminds you that rebuilding is not a one-time act. It is a daily choice.

Now I get to watch my kids fall in love with the gym and movement in their own ways. My oldest son lifts heavy weights, tracks his macros, and has transformed his body through focus and consistency. His dedication blows me away. My daughter became a certified barre instructor. She lives to teach and take class, and I love being in the room when she teaches. There is something magical about the way women respond to her energy. She leads with strength and presence, and I am always proud to be one of her students.

What started as something just for me has become something we share. It has become a language we all speak. Watching my children grow into their own strength has been one of the most unexpected and joyful parts of parenting.

I don’t hike.
I don’t run.
I hate the outdoors unless there’s a horse involved.
But the gym is where I go to find peace.

It is the one place where my mind goes quiet. Where I stop spinning. Where everything makes sense. Headphones in. Weights loaded. Everyone in the room chasing their own version of better.

It is not just about the mirror. It is not just about the reps. It is about the ritual. The consistency. The quiet power of showing up for yourself. Day after day. It is about who you become in the process, not what you look like at the end.

The gym is my church. Not in a religious way, but in a sacred one. Walking into that space reminds me that I can do hard things. That discomfort does not mean stop. It means keep going. That progress is made in silence, in sweat, and in the decision to keep showing up.

That is what The Edit is really about.

Coming back to yourself.
Building the strength you need to live differently.
Writing a new story with intention and integrity.
Living with earned confidence.

Some people find peace in prayer.
I find it under a loaded barbell.

The Weight of Expectation

The Truth About Expectations: Mine, Yours, and Ours

I’ve been thinking a lot about expectations lately — the ones I carry, the ones I place on others, and the ones that quietly shape my days without me even realizing.

My husband. My kids. My friends.
Myself, most of all.

Sometimes I’ve told myself that expecting less means less disappointment. But that feels like a dismal way to live — like shrinking down your hope just to avoid friction. And frankly, that’s not the woman I want to be at 49 and a half.

The Expectations I Place on Myself

If I’m being honest, I expect the most from me.

I expect to be calm and competent, strong and soft, driven and grounded. I expect to look a certain way, perform a certain way, show up a certain way — even when I’m tired.

I don’t lower the bar for myself. I raise it.
And while that’s made me successful in a lot of areas, it’s also made rest feel like a luxury I haven’t earned.

Marriage and Shifting Roles

I have this quiet expectation that my husband should provide for me — not because I can’t, but because I always have.

For years, I’ve carried my own financial weight. I’ve made the plans, managed the schedules, kept all the wheels turning. And part of me wonders: is it okay to want to put some of that down? To expect something different now?

But then I ask myself — is that expectation fair? Or is it based on a version of life I haven’t fully examined?

This isn’t about dependence. It’s about evolving. And figuring out what partnership looks like when the roles start to shift.

Friendship and Frustration

Sometimes I find myself frustrated when friends don’t prioritize themselves — when they say they don’t have time to work out, or grab lunch, or do anything that isn’t for someone else.

And it’s not that they aren’t busy — they are. Just like me.
But I wonder: if I can find a way to make space for myself, why can’t they?

It’s something I’m working on, because that frustration can turn into quiet judgment. And I don’t want to hold my friends to a standard I’ve never said out loud.

But I do crave friendships where there’s shared energy — not the same routines, but the same intention. The same effort to show up for yourself, and for each other.

Maybe that’s part of midlife too: paying attention to how people spend their time — and choosing to stay close to the ones who spend it with care.

So Where Does That Leave Me?

I’m not done wrestling with these questions.

I still don’t know the perfect balance between high standards and grace, between independence and partnership, between judgment and discernment.

But I do know this: expectations shape how we love, how we lead, and how we live. And I want mine to come from a place of trust, not fear. Of vision, not control.

Even if that means getting disappointed now and then.