Do you ever hold onto something so tightly because you’re afraid of missing it, only to let go… and realize you don’t?
For years, I worked event security. Nights and weekends, holidays and playoff games—I was there. If it was loud, live, and a logistical nightmare, I was probably working it. I have enough wild stories from that time to fill their own blog (and maybe one day I will), but the truth is, most of the people I worked with were just… coworkers. Not lifelong friends. Not “bring you soup when you’re sick” people. But they were there for the moments—the experiences—that kept me coming back.
And oh, the experiences.
I had the kind of job that would make a younger version of me light up. Ice level at Colorado Avalanche games. The barricade at Empower Field. The sound mix at Red Rocks. The pit at Dick’s Sporting Goods Park. The best seats in any house—and I was getting paid for it.
For a long time, it made the chaos and politics worth it. It brought me joy. Real joy.
And here’s the thing—it wasn’t about missing my kids. I never felt guilty about leaving them in the care of people who love them completely, who are helping build strong bonds and expand their world. I believe in that. I believe my kids benefit from being surrounded by more than just me.
I wasn’t torn between motherhood and working security. That wasn’t the tension. The tension was realizing that the job that once lit me up no longer did. And that the only thing keeping me there was the idea that I should still want it.
In February, I worked my last event. And I never looked back.
Sure, there were some internal politics that pushed me to the edge. But deep down, I knew it was time. It no longer filled my cup—it drained it. And in this season of life, I don’t have the luxury of being drained by things that aren’t essential.
I used to be afraid that stepping away meant losing a part of myself. That I’d miss the excitement, the unpredictability, the sense of being close to something big. But I didn’t miss it. Not once. And that’s how I knew it was the right call.
Motherhood has a way of reshaping our priorities, our energy, and our bandwidth. It doesn’t mean we stop being who we were—it means we become more intentional about how we spend our time, and with whom.
The people worth holding onto? They’re still around. The stories? I still carry them. But the rest? I let it go—and it turns out, I didn’t need it to begin with.
Sometimes, letting go isn’t about loss. It’s about making room for what’s next.
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