It started on a quiet stretch of highway, somewhere between Starkville and home. Erik and I had just dropped Gracie off to begin her freshman year of college—her dorm room freshly decorated, her heart full of anticipation, and ours… well, ours were a swirling mix of pride, nostalgia, and the ache of letting go.
As we drove, the car felt unusually quiet. Cooper was back at home, starting his sophomore year of high school with thrilling new adventures of his own—learning to drive and preparing to audition for the youth symphony orchestra, his absolute passion. He was stepping into his own spotlight, and we were cheering him on from the wings.
And suddenly it hit us: our kids didn’t need us in the same way anymore. Not less love, not less presence—but less of the day-to-day, hand-holding kind of parenting. They were growing up. And it was amazing. And sad. And scary. All at once.
We started talking about what this new chapter might look like for us. What could we build now that our roles were shifting? What kind of adventure could we take on that still felt connected to the heart of parenting, encouragement, and creativity?
That’s when I thought about the cards.
Just a few weeks earlier, I had made a batch of little motivational cards for Gracie’s Rush Week—tiny bursts of encouragement tucked into her bag each day. They were playful, heartfelt, and full of inside jokes and affirmations. She told me they made her feel grounded and loved, even in the whirlwind of sorority life. And I realized: this is something I could share. Not just with Gracie, but with other families, other kids, other moments of transition.
So right there in the car, Goose Coop Cards was born.
The name came naturally—our little family flock, always circling back to each other, even as we fly in new directions. The “coop” is our nest, our home base. And the cards? They’re our way of sending love out into the world, one message at a time.
Goose Coop Cards became a way to channel all the feelings of this season—joy, worry, pride, hope—into something tangible. Something whimsical and warm. Something that says, “You’ve got this,” whether you’re starting college, learning to drive, auditioning for your dream orchestra, or just navigating the ups and downs of growing up.
And for Erik and me, it’s a new kind of parenting. A new kind of creating. A new kind of adventure.
