Who am I?

I didn’t plan on starting a blog. Honestly, I didn’t plan on a lot of things that ended up happening. Life has this annoying talent for showing up uninvited, kicking the door open, and tracking mud on the clean floors. And there I was, standing in the middle of it all, trying to figure out how to keep my footing while the ground felt like Jell-O.

Somewhere in all that chaos, I kept finding myself in the kitchen. Not doing anything fancy — just cooking because it made sense when nothing else did. When life felt too loud, chopping onions was quiet. When everything else was out of my control, I could at least control the heat on the stove. And when the world was burning, I could still simmer something good.

That’s really where The Brave Apron started. Not in some grand moment of clarity or a perfect Hallmark-movie epiphany. It was more like… me, leaning on the counter at midnight, staring into a pot of something I hoped wouldn’t scorch, thinking, “Okay. I may not have answers, but I can make dinner. That’s something.”

Funny thing is, the kitchen has a way of telling the truth. You can’t rush a slow-cooked meal, just like you can’t rush healing. You can’t avoid a mess — you just clean it up and keep cooking. And when you burn something? You try again. Or you order pizza. Both are valid coping strategies.

For a long time, I thought bravery was big and loud — like running into burning buildings or climbing mountains. Turns out, bravery is tying on an apron when your heart is tired. It’s getting up and trying again when yesterday flattened you. It’s feeding yourself, literally and figuratively, even when you don’t feel like you deserve a warm meal.

And the apron? That thing became my little symbol. Not cute. Not poetic. Just real. Every time I tied it on, it meant, “I’m still here.” Even on the days when being “here” felt like an overachievement.

So this blog is a collection of all of that — the surviving, the cooking, the rebuilding, the laughing so you don’t cry, and the crying because sometimes you have to. It’s a place to put the pieces. A place to let things simmer. A place to remember that even small, quiet acts can be heroic.

If you’re here reading this, welcome to my kitchen — messy, honest, and full of stories I didn’t expect to live through, but did. Pull up a stool. There’s always something on the stove. And if the flame’s a little crooked today… well, same.

Here’s to being brave, even when it’s boring.
Even when it’s inconvenient.
Even when it’s Tuesday.

And here’s to the apron — the one that survived right along with me.

~alyse