It’s okay to start messy. You just have to start.

Ashes in Ink

5 days ago

About a year ago, I told a client over coffee that I planned to hike the West Highland Way in Scotland.

For those unfamiliar with this particular adventure, it’s 96.7 miles of mountains, valleys, rocks, mud, inconsistent weather, and the occasional sheep who looks at you like you’ve lost your ever-loving mind.

And I intend to walk every blessed mile of it. At my age. On purpose. Without anybody chasing me.

When I told him about my plans, he looked at me, tilted his head, and asked me a question that has stuck with me ever since: “Are you chasing something, or are you running from something?”

He explained that people who set off on long treks like this are usually doing one or the other.

I told him I was looking for a story… something worth writing about. Consequently, he nodded, gave a wry smile and announced that I was indeed chasing something.

I wasn’t certain he was right, and truth be told, I was more concerned with whether my knees would survive the Scottish wilderness and mused that it might be nice if their government considered installing handrails on mountains for aging, obstinate women with more determination than cartilage.

But this morning, I think I finally understood his question.

I was swiping through my phone when I came across a photograph of a beautiful baby girl. Y’all, she was precious. Big eyes, sweet little face, absolutely gorgeous.

And then I realized… She had been filtered.

Somebody had taken this perfectly beautiful little human being, who hadn’t even had time to develop a bad hair day, and run her photograph through a filter to make her more beautiful.

More beautiful than what? A perfect baby girl?

Heaven help us.

This child hadn’t even gotten started in life, and someone had already decided reality needed a little touching up.

Now, I’m not throwing stones at her mama. Lord knows I’ve taken a picture of myself and thought, “Surely there’s an app that can do something about all this.” …and if somebody invents a filter that makes my neck look like it did in 1992 without making my ears disappear, I might be tempted.

But when did we decide that even innocence needed improvement?

I swiped up.

The very next post was an AI-generated advertisement for some event or another. Perfect colors. Perfect graphics. Perfect everything. And so packed with information that I couldn’t have told you what the event was if you’d offered me a $100 bill and a plate of my Mamaw’s peanut butter fudge.

It looked exactly like the other 47 perfect advertisements I’d already scrolled past that morning.

And it hit me. We are drowning in artificial perfection. Filtered faces. Manufactured sunsets. Computer-generated smiles. Everybody looks younger, everybody’s house is cleaner, and apparently nobody on the internet has pores anymore.

Y’all, I have pores. I have wrinkles. I have a chin that invited a second chin to come visit, and now it’s taken up permanent residence and occasionally has rogue chin hairs over to give me fits.

And I’ve earned every bit of it.

Somewhere along the way, we started polishing the humanity right out of being human.

We’ve become so accustomed to seeing life through a filter that actual life is starting to look like the mistake.

And that brings me back to Scotland.

…Because when Abbey and I set out on the West Highland Way, there will be no filters.

Just the two of us, 96.7 miles of rocks and dirt, some of the most breathtaking scenery God ever put on this earth, and probably Hillary somewhere behind us with a camera, documenting every miserable, glorious, unflattering minute.

There will be sweat, mud, windblown hair, and moments when my face looks like a boiled tomato, and my legs feel like somebody replaced my bones with wet spaghetti.

There may well be language that requires editing before the footage can be shown at the Baptist church.

And I fully expect Abbey will look at me at some point and ask, “Whose idea was this?”
And if I’m lying face down on a Scottish hillside when she asks, she may have to wait a minute for an answer, but I will not dodge the question. The answer is: Mine, baby. It was MINE.

It will be real. Awkwardly, painfully, undeniably, and beautifully real. Every aching step. Every ridiculous conversation. Every breathtaking view.

And I’m beginning to believe reality is about to become one of the most valuable things we have left.

Artificial intelligence can write our words, manufacture our voices, and create photographs of people who never existed standing in places they’ve never been.

It can generate a picture of a woman standing triumphantly on a mountain.

But it can’t give her the aching feet, a pounding heart, or the unadulterated joy of discovering she was stronger than she thought.

And that’s what I don’t want us to lose.

So, give me your best crooked smiles, embarrassing belly laughs or snorts (if you are Abbey), and photographs where somebody blinked. Give me stories told around kitchen tables by people who occasionally lose their train of thought. Give me the messy, imperfect, gloriously human business of being alive.

Because that’s where the good stories live.

Maybe that’s why the other side of the Appalachians is calling to me. They’ve stood there for thousands of years without a single beauty filter. They don’t care how many followers you have, whether your hiking clothes match, or whether your backside looks gargantuan in waterproof trousers.

They’re just there. Ancient. Beautiful. Unapologetically real.

And I want to walk among them. I want to hear the stories that have traveled through those hills for generations. I want to feel the wind on my face and the rain on my shoulders. I want to stand somewhere so beautiful that I forget to reach for my phone.

I want us to come home with stories no computer could have invented, because surely no machine would dream up two apparently intelligent women willingly doing this to themselves.

And I want Hillary to catch it all. Well, most of it. (There are certain uphill situations in which a woman deserves a little privacy and a shoulder-up camera angle.)

I’m still Southern, after all. We do have standards.

So, back to my brilliant client’s question. Am I chasing something? Or am I running from something?

Honestly… Maybe, just maybe, it’s both. Maybe I’m running from a world that keeps insisting everything must be prettier, younger, smoother, and more perfect than it really is.

Or perhaps I’m chasing stories with dirt on their faces and honest bones. Or the woman I still believe I can be, even as the years pile up beyond reason and my knees make sounds like somebody opening a bag of pork rinds.

But mostly, I think I’m chasing something we’ll all be hungry for before long. Authenticity.

I believe a day is coming when the rarest thing we can offer one another won’t be perfection. It will be proof that something was real. A real face. A real friendship. A real adventure. A story told by somebody who actually lived it, because that will be our currency.

And when that day comes, I want to have a few of those stories to tell. Preferably while sitting down, with my feet propped up and a large glass of sweet tea within reach.

So Scotland, here we come. Team Kellum: No filters. No artificial perfection. No pretending that 96.7 miles is a sensible recreational activity for a woman like me whose knees already have opinions about the stairs.

Just us, the Highlands, and whatever stories God sees fit to put in our path.

And if you happen to see a photograph of me standing on a Scottish mountain, red-faced, soaking wet, with my hair looking like I’ve been dragged backward through a hedge, and attacked by local sheep, please don’t feel the need to fix it.

Leave every wrinkle. Leave the windblown hair and the tired eyes.

Because for once, I don’t want the picture to look better than the life.

I want the life to be so good that the picture can’t possibly do it justice.
And y’all, that’s worth chasing. I can’t wait.
#WHW #westhighlandway #TeamKellum #kindredtrailsproject ... See MoreSee Less

Ashes in Ink

1 week ago

One of my core memories on repeat. Happy Halloween, Y’all…

I was maybe five or six, and that Halloween, I was all in on being an alien. Not just any alien—the green kind with wide eyes and cosmic mystery trailing behind them like stardust. My costume had everything: silver boots, antennas that wobbled when I walked, and the crown jewel—green face paint that would transform me from ordinary Earthling to otherworldly visitor. I’d talked about it for weeks. Practiced my alien voice. Perfected my intergalactic strut. I was ready.

But somewhere between the excitement of costumes and candy, I was whisked away to my Nana’s for trick-or-treating. She lived out in the country, tucked between cotton fields and gravel roads—a place where the night felt bigger and darker, and Halloween meant knocking on maybe five doors if you were lucky. Still, it was tradition, and the crisp country air carried that smoky, autumn smell I loved.

But when we unpacked the car and I went to grab the green face paint, my stomach dropped straight to the ground.

The face paint. It was still at home. Miles away, sitting uselessly on the bathroom counter.

I don’t remember if I cried or just stood there, silently deflating like a sad balloon. I do recall being inconsolable and thinking the costume was ruined. I wasn’t an alien without that green face. I was just a kid in a shiny suit.

And then Aunt Doris (bless her resourceful, beauty-savvy soul) came into the room with one of those makeup palettes women keep in bathroom drawers for years. You know the kind—dozens of tiny squares in every color, many barely used. She opened it to show me the options and said, “Let’s fix this.”

She found a shade of green—sparkling, forest-deep, with flecks of gold—and started gently painting my face with eye shadow. It took longer than face paint would have. The powder fluffed into the air with every brushstroke. But slowly, magically, I began to shimmer.

By the time she was done, I didn’t look like the alien I had imagined; I looked better. I looked like an alien queen, shimmering and strange and perfect under the October moon.

That Halloween turned out to be one of my favorites. Not because of the candy or the haunted house, but because of that moment… a small save that meant everything. The kind of rescue that only an Aunt Doris could pull off.

And ever since then, I’ve kept a little space in my heart for last-minute solutions, for sparkly green eye shadow, and for the people who show up with magic when you need it most. ... See MoreSee Less

Ashes in Ink

2 weeks ago

Well, y’all, we’ve made the national news again.

And this time, nobody had to wrestle a bear, drive into a building, or get arrested doing something that seemed like a perfectly good idea after six shots of moonshine.

According to USA TODAY, Tennessee’s most mispronounced word is Sevierville.

Not some obscure little community tucked away in the mountains where the population consists of 14 people, three churches, and a Dollar General.

SEVIERVILLE.

One of the gateways to the Great Smoky Mountains. A major tourist destination in the Southeast. The hometown of our beloved Dolly Parton, whose extraordinary generosity changed countless lives and whose legacy will continue making this world a better place long after her passing.

You’d think folks could at least learn to pronounce the name of the woman’s hometown. But apparently not.

For the record, it’s Suh-veer-vul.

Not Sev-ee-er-ville. Not See-vee-air-ville. And certainly not whatever linguistic gymnastics some of y’all are performing when you stop to ask for directions.

It’s three syllables, people. We aren’t asking you to recite the Gettysburg Address in Latin.

Now, before anybody accuses me of being a mountain snob, let me clarify something. I wasn’t born in East Tennessee. But I’ve lived here longer than I’ve lived anywhere else on this planet, and at this point, I figure I’ve earned my honorary membership.

I’ve survived enough tourist traffic on the Parkway to qualify for combat pay. I’ve learned that a five-mile drive can take 45 minutes if somebody spots a bear. And I know better than to go anywhere near Pigeon Forge on a holiday weekend unless I’m packing snacks, a full tank of gas, and the patience of Job.

So yes, I feel qualified to weigh in on this matter.

And frankly, I’m a little concerned about America’s reading comprehension.

We’re talking about a place that welcomes millions of visitors to the surrounding Smokies every year. People come here from every corner of the country to see the mountains, visit Dollywood, buy enough outlet merchandise to outfit a small nation, and eat pancakes like they’re training for the Olympics.

Yet somehow, after passing approximately 47 signs announcing their arrival in Sevierville, they still can’t say it. Of course, pronunciation is a touchy subject around here.

There’s a song out right now called Oh Appalachia, and every time I hear the singer mispronounce Appalachia, I cringe audibly and a little piece of my mountain-loving soul climbs under the porch, clasps its hands over its ear, and has a tiny, foggy mountain breakdown.

Dear sweet child, you’re SINGING about the place as though you are from it. Know how to say it so that someone believes you. (Surely somebody in the recording studio could have raised a hand and said, “Excuse me, but before we put this on the radio, could we consult an actual Appalachian?”)

Around here, it’s App-uh-LATCH-uh.

That other pronunciation might fly somewhere else, but in these mountains, it’ll usually get you the kind of look reserved for people who bring store-bought potato salad to a church homecoming.

And then there’s Maryville. If you’re new to the area, you might pronounce it exactly the way it’s spelled, but spend enough time around the locals, and you’ll discover that Maryville has somehow become “Murr-vul.” My husband’s people are from Murrvul. If you say Mary-ville, they will look at your like you’ve grown an extra head.

Which makes perfect sense when you consider that Southerners have never been particularly interested in wasting syllables. We have things to do. Biscuits to butter. Tea to sweeten. Neighbors to discuss. We cannot be expected to pronounce every vowel the English language throws at us.

Still, I believe there’s a difference between regional dialect and just flat-out refusing to learn the name of the place you’re visiting.

If I can figure out how to pronounce Massachusetts, surely somebody from Massachusetts can figure out Sevierville.

Fair is fair.

And while we’re on the subject, let me offer a little friendly advice to our visitors.

We genuinely love having you here. Tourism is an important part of our economy, and we’re proud that people travel from all over the world to experience these beautiful mountains, but please remember that some of us actually live here.

That means when you’re driving 12 miles an hour down the Parkway admiring the scenery, someone behind you is probably trying to get to Food City before it closes, pick up a prescription, or gather up their younguns from ball practice. We appreciate your enthusiasm.
We’d appreciate it even more if you’d occasionally use the right lane.

And for heaven’s sake, don’t stop in the middle of the road to photograph a bear. I’ve said it before: That bear has absolutely no interest in your Instagram account.

But back to Sevierville.

I suppose we should be flattered that our little piece of East Tennessee has earned national recognition for something other than traffic congestion and the occasional badly behaved black bear, and I reckon if mispronouncing our town is the worst thing somebody does while visiting, we’re doing pretty well.

After all, Southern hospitality is our specialty and means making people feel welcome, even when they’re butchering the English language right in front of us. We’ll smile. We’ll help you find your hotel. We’ll recommend somewhere good to eat, and once you’re safely out of earshot, we’ll probably repeat whatever you just said to three other people.

That’s not being mean. That’s preserving local history.

So come on down, America. Enjoy our mountains, spend a little money, eat some good Southern cooking, and make yourself at home.

Just do us one small favor. Learn to say Sevierville. Suh-veer-vul.

And if that’s still too much to remember, just tell us you’re headed toward Dolly’s hometown.

We’ll know exactly where you’re going. We might even give you directions.

Of course, they’ll probably involve turning left where the old gas station used to be, going past a barn that hasn’t stood since 1993, and hanging a right at somebody’s cousin’s house.

Good luck with that.

And remember, y’all: Around here, we may swallow a few syllables, but we’re never good at swallowing our pride and we are proud of this place we call home. Immensely so.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to run to Murrvul.
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Update: some of you are taking issue with “Murrvul” and prefer “Mervul” — I’m sitting here sounding them out and they sound the same to me. So perhaps I have misspelled it or perhaps I am not at all saying it correctly. Either could be true. Know, Dearest Gentle Readers, I’ve done my best.

All I have to go on are the sweet folks who took me in when their son decided I was worthy to be his wife… They are God’s honest locals, born and raised. …and apparently, my pronunciation passes muster with them (or they’ve just been too nice to tell me the last 9 years). ... See MoreSee Less

Ashes in Ink

2 weeks ago

Years ago, I nearly brought my management career to a screeching halt over a biscuit.

Not a million-dollar contract. Not a personnel crisis. Not even a particularly controversial biscuit. Just breakfast.

Apparently, someone way up the food chain had decided on a whim that I was qualified enough to help run a retail store stocked with expensive electronics, supervise a dozen employees and a growing list of vendors, handle cash money, and deal with an assortment of customers who didn’t grasp the very important concept of roaming (iykyk) and who also believed their cell phones should work underwater, underground, and possibly on the moon. But the idea of purchasing a few sausage biscuits without adult supervision? I couldn’t quite wrap my head around that.

In another lifetime, I was an assistant manager for a group of cellular phone stores. I wanted very badly to do a good job, and was apparently operating under the impression that every managerial decision required written authorization from someone with a higher title.

I worked for a man I look back on as one of the best bosses of my career. His name was Brian. Brian was smart, practical, supportive, and possessed the kind of common sense that seems increasingly scarce. He also did not suffer fools gladly. Unfortunately, on this particular morning, I was apparently serving as the entire fool department.

We had a staff meeting scheduled before the store opened, and I thought it would be nice to bring everyone breakfast. Biscuits seemed like a good idea. Who doesn't appreciate a biscuit? People who don't believe in butter, perhaps. People with gluten sensitivities. But otherwise, biscuits are about as universally appreciated as Dolly Parton and a good parking spot.

There was just one problem. I didn't know whether I was allowed to buy them.

Now, understand, I wasn't proposing we cater the meeting with lobster tails and champagne. I meant a sack of biscuits from a fast-food restaurant. Nevertheless, I felt it was my responsibility to ask permission.

So, I called Brian.

"Hey, Brian! Is it okay if I buy biscuits for the meeting?"

Click. The phone went dead.

Well, that's peculiar.

(This was back in the days when dropped calls were common enough that you could blame practically anything on cellular service, including avoiding the church lady calling to ask if you'd chair another committee.)

So, I called him back.

"Brian, I was asking if it's okay to buy biscuits for the meeting."

Click. Dead again.

Now, I was beginning to wonder if he was having trouble with his phone. Which, considering we worked for a cell phone company, was not exactly a ringing endorsement of our product.

I called a third time. He answered.

"MAKE A DECISION!"

I nearly swallowed my tongue. "Sir?"

"MAKE. A. DECISION. I don't care what the decision is. Just MAKE ONE!"

"But I was just trying to..."

"LISTEN. You have got to start making decisions. Buy the biscuits. Don't buy the biscuits. I don't care! Nobody's life hangs in the balance. There is absolutely nothing you can do so badly that we can't fix it later!"

And there it was. My first real lesson in leadership, delivered at full volume over a questionable cellular connection, with breakfast hanging in the balance.

I stood silently holding the phone, realizing that I had just called my boss THREE TIMES to ask permission to purchase baked goods. I had somehow turned a biscuit into a corporate emergency.

Now, through the goggles of experience, I cringe a little at it all.

But something important happened during that conversation. Brian gave me permission to trust myself. More importantly, he made it clear that if I made a mistake, he would help me fix it.

That proved enlightening.

Until then, I assumed good managers never made mistakes. They always knew the right answer, made the right choice, and never did anything that might make someone higher up the food chain raise an eyebrow.

If you think about it, it's a ridiculous standard. I've been making dubious choices since I was three and cut my own bangs. Why on earth would a management title suddenly cure me of that?

In my lifetime, I've made plenty of decisions I thought were perfectly reasonable at the time, but in hindsight, I probably would have done better with a warning label and what the girls in my office call, “an adultier adult.” Fortunately, most mistakes are fixable. Not all of them, of course. Decisions involving people's safety, livelihoods, and well-being deserve serious consideration. But not all decisions carry someone’s life in the balance. Sometimes you're just choosing biscuits.

And there's something else I've learned about indecision. It can be downright dangerous. Particularly if you're a squirrel.

Anyone who's spent even a little time driving East Tennessee backroads can attest to what I mean. You're cruising along, windows down perhaps, minding your own business, when a little hazelnut-hued squirrel darts right into the road. At first, he looks committed. He's got places to be, nuts to bury, and other important squirrel business to conduct.

Then he sees your car and loses his ability to function. LEFT! NO, RIGHT! WAIT! GO BACK! MAYBE LEFT AGAIN!

The squirrel then begins a frantic little dance in the middle of the road, like somebody dropped a handful of methamphetamine into a Zumba class. Meanwhile, you're standing on the brakes, praying you don't accidentally turn a woodland creature into a squashy speed bump.

And what does the squirrel do next? He freezes, apparently, assuming that if he stands perfectly still, the laws of physics will reconsider the inevitable.

God bless his tiny, indecisive heart… and God bless ours.

I've often thought that squirrel is the perfect illustration of what happens when we become so afraid of making the wrong decision that we can't make any decision at all. We reconsider. We ask for opinions. We make lists. We consult three friends, two relatives, and somebody on Facebook who has never demonstrated particularly sound judgment but is always available to offer an opinion.

Meanwhile, life is barreling toward us in a Chevrolet Silverado. Sometimes you've just got to pick a direction and MOVE.

That lesson has followed me through every leadership position I've held, and eventually into owning my own business. I think about Brian often, especially when someone on my team comes to me with a question they can answer themselves.

Now, I try not to hang up on people. With modern technology, they'd probably text me, then email me, then message me asking whether I'd seen the text and email anyway.

I just try to give them the same gift Brian gave me. The confidence to make a decision, the freedom to occasionally get it wrong, and the assurance that if things go off track, I won't stand there pointing fingers while they try to put Humpty Dumpty back together with a glue stick and a prayer.

We'll figure it out. Together.

I've worked for micromanagers who also complained that nobody showed initiative. People who demanded independent thinking but questioned every independent thought. That's not leadership.

Brian, thank goodness, wasn't interested in any of that. He understood that the only way I was going to learn to make decisions was to actually make some. And if I occasionally made a mess, he'd help me clean it up.

I don't remember whether I bought breakfast that morning. For all I know, those poor employees sat through the meeting hungry while I recovered from my first executive-level chewing out. But I remember Brian, and I remember the tremendous relief of realizing I didn't have to be perfect to do my job well.

These days, I make decisions all day long. Some brilliant. Some questionable. A few that probably make the Good Lord rub His temples. But I make them.

And I hope the people who work with me have learned that they can do the same, knowing that if they stumble, I'll be there to help them back up. Because the best leaders don't create people who are afraid to make mistakes. They create people who know they won't have to face those mistakes alone.

Here's the real question, Dearest Gentle Readers: What’s the decision you have been putting off because you don’t feel qualified to make it? That thing you've researched to death, discussed with everyone you know and their grandmamas, and fretted over ad nauseam about until you've almost forgotten what you were trying to accomplish?

For the sake of all things holy, make the call. You might get it right, or maybe not. Who knows? You might get lucky and end up with a story you'll still be telling thirty-six years from now in a column on a social media platform.

If you are in leadership, do one better: Give your people enough room to make their own decisions and be kind enough to let them know you've got their backs. The confidence you give somebody today might shape how they handle their own teams decades from now.

As for me, I can still hear Brian's voice whenever I catch myself overthinking something that doesn't deserve nearly that much attention.

"MAKE A DECISION!"

So, if you're standing in the middle of the road today, next to a mishapen pile of squirrel that didn’t know what to do next, and debating whether to go left or right, consider this your courteous reminder:

Buy the biscuits. Trust yourself. And get your furry little behind out of the road before you become somebody's hood ornament. ... See MoreSee Less