The Choice to Archive

June 5, 2026

A couple of weeks ago, I took Of Ash and Honey offline.

At the time, it felt like the right decision.

The site was born out of a season of profound loss, upheaval, grief, growth, leadership under fire, and transformation. It held the words I needed after my world had exploded and as I painfully sorted through the wreckage, and worked relentlessly to put myself back together in new and better ways.

It was honest. It was raw. It was necessary.

When I took it down, I thought I was closing a chapter.

I told people that maybe they would be able to find me again someday. Maybe. I wasn't sure what came next, only that I felt called toward something different.

And then, after sitting with it for a couple of weeks, I realized something.

Not everything that is finished needs to disappear.

When I took the site down, I thought I was leaving it behind. What I eventually realized is that I don't want to leave it behind.

Of Ash and Honey captures a season of my life that changed me forever. I am no longer living in that season, but I am not interested in pretending it didn't happen either.

The woman who wrote those words is still me.

The grief is still part of me.

The lessons are still part of me.

The courage it took to climb my own personal Mt. Everest, multiple times, is still part of me.

So rather than delete it, I have chosen to archive it.

An archive is different from an active publication. It is not where I am building today. It is not where I am focused. It is not a reflection of what is currently unfolding in my life.

It is simply a record of what was.

A place to honor a season that shaped me.

A place for those words to continue to exist without needing to become anything more.

Life moves in chapters. Some are still being written. Some have reached their natural conclusion. Both deserve respect.

Of Ash and Honey belongs to a chapter that has ended.

But endings do not diminish the value of what came before them.

So the site returns, not as a continuation, but as an archive.

A reminder that every version of ourselves matters.

Even the ones we have outgrown.