This weekend, I had the incredible opportunity to compete at TedFest’s Songwriter Competition—and somehow, by grace, grit, and probably caffeine—I won first place.

Playing original music with the mountains as a backdrop? Unreal. Meeting fellow musicians, jamming on two stages, and listening to crazy bluegrass and country bands. Insane!

It’s the kind of festival that makes you fall in love with music all over again.

Throughout the day, people kept coming up to me saying,
“You look so polished and relaxed on stage- Like you’ve got it all together.”

And I smiled and said thanks….

But inside, I was screaming:
“You have no idea what the past 24 hours looked like.”

So let me show you.

Flashback to Friday.

Friday hadn’t been smooth. Let’s just say my body wasn’t exactly cooperating, and I probably should’ve gone straight to bed.

But I hadn’t seen some close friends in months, and they were heading up the canyon for a fire.
Normally, I’d play it safe the night before a performance, especially with how smoke and late nights can mess with your vocal cords.

But I needed the connection more than the caution. And honestly? I’m so glad I went.
We laughed, talked about life, and by the time I got home, it was already after midnight.

And then, for reasons I still can’t explain, I spent another hour brushing and re-curling my perm-style waves, trying to make the next morning’s 5:40 a.m. wakeup feel slightly more manageable.

(Spoiler: It didn’t.)

Saturday. 5:40 a.m. sharp. (WHERE IT REALLY GOES WRONG)

The alarm screams. I launch out of bed and go full-send: makeup, outfit, vocal warmups, gear check. All I need now are three printed copies of my lyrics for the judges.

And of course—the printer won’t work. It never works for me. It only likes my mom. But today, it betrays her, too.

So I do what any panicked younger sister would do: call my older sister at 7:00 a.m. on a Saturday.
“Can you print my lyrics and bring them to me?”
Bless her. She does.

Mom and I hop in the car—lyrics en route—and that’s when we realize we’re out of gas.

Because… of course we are.

We race to the station, grab the lyrics from Ashley’s (My big sis) porch, and finally hit the freeway toward Wallsburg—now dangerously flirting with being late.

In the car, I warm up with my guitar, which has a built-in tuner. I strum a few chords and go to power it down, only to realize the batteries are dead.
Completely dead.
They were fully charged the day before.

I glance at my mom. She glances at me. Then she pulls the sharpest right turn I’ve ever experienced and flies into the Harmons parking lot. We run inside, one boot half-on, sprinting to the battery aisle.

No CR2032 button batteries in sight.

So I accept it. I’ll be playing unplugged.

We pull into the venue, still running on no sleep and dry shampoo, trying to mask the campfire still in my hair. My mom, ever the optimist, says, “Why don’t you have your dad bring some batteries?”

Genius! Except… no cell service.

I wander around, phone raised like a divining rod, until I randomly connect to a nearby RV’s Wi-Fi (so sketchy) and make one desperate call to my brother.

He is not making it in time.

At this point, I just start laughing. I think of my dad’s favorite phrase:
“Create your own luck.”
And I think about how miserably I’ve failed at that this morning.

I glance down—I’m probably the most overdressed person here. (And this was a toned-down outfit.)
I already feel like a failure—I don’t want to be a sparkly one. So I take out my big gold flower hoops and try to shake it off.

And then—God saves my life.
(Not literally. But it felt like it.)

As I sign in and look around, I realize something:
No one is plugging in. Every single artist is playing with a mic’d guitar.

I almost kiss the grass.

Mom and I fist pump in the parking lot. (It’s the little victories.)

Miraculously, my dad and brother show up just in time to see me perform, and even brought one battery. (Spoiler: I needed two.) But seeing that tiny rare battery in my dad’s hand almost made me cry. They showed up. That’s what mattered.

And then—my name is called.

I walk on stage. I play. I sing. And I remember why I love this.

And when they called my name for first place, I wasn’t thinking about the failed printer or the no-show batteries.

I looked out and saw my mom, my dad, and my brother. I thought of my sister, my people.

And for the first time in a while, I didn’t feel like I was chasing this music dream alone. I was backed by a family that believes in me, even when I’m scrambling, sweaty, and 30 seconds from disaster.

So yeah, I looked “put together.”

But behind every polished moment is a messy, hilarious, deeply human story. And most of the time, it’s not just about pushing through—

It’s about who shows up to help when you fall short.

And I just hope I get the chance to return the favor—oodles and oodles of times.

P.S. I’m writing this at 1:30 a.m. on Saturday night after TedFest. I don’t know how I’m functioning. I just know my heart is full…. it’s now 2:00 am.

Until next time,