Eons ago (or at least it feels that way), I went from being a part of the marketing team to running it. I was responsible for more than campaigns and events now—I was responsible for people.

Our team was running smoothly, but something was missing... camaraderie. So, I devised a strategy to bring the group together and help us collaborate. The plan was simple—we were going to carve pumpkins during our team meeting and have a group lunch in the conference room. I didn't ask permission because... why would I need it?

I used my own money and bought each member of the team a pumpkin and carving tools. We pushed the laptops aside and spent an hour or two doing something tactile and seasonal and slightly ridiculous. It brought out our creativity, we chatted, we laughed, we had fun. It felt human.

It also triggered complaints. A member of another department went to HR about it. Apparently marketing “wasn’t working” because we were laughing with pumpkin guts on our hands. I was pulled aside and chastised.

In true Megan fashion, I didn't stop, I kept holding these "silly" meetings with my team. Not to be defiant, but because I understood something early: teams do not produce their best work in sterile environments.

Over the next year, we hosted what became unofficial traditions. We did a Saturday morning theme where everyone brought in their favorite cereal and we played 80's cartoons. We did an Aloha Friday where we wore our best tropical (and obviously work appropriate) gear. Nothing extravagant. No trust falls. No expensive offsites. Just intentional pauses.

And you know what happened? Our work improved. Not because cereal unlocks strategic genius, but because psychological safety does.

When people relax, they speak differently. When they speak differently, ideas move. When ideas move, innovation follows. Marketing requires creative risk. You cannot ask a team to generate bold thinking in an environment where every minute is monitored and every deviation is questioned.

Team-building isn’t about forced bonding. It’s about lowering the temperature just enough that real collaboration can surface. What HR and some of the C-suite saw a a distraction, I saw as cohesiveness. The team was having fun together. They trusted each other. They were more likely to help each other out.

Here’s the part leaders often miss: team-building isn't solely about morale, it's also about boosting performance. When a team trusts each other, feedback sharpens instead of wounds. Deadlines feel shared instead of imposed. Brainstorms produce layered thinking instead of safe ideas.

When people see each other as humans—not just job titles—the work deepens.

The pumpkin carving was never about pumpkins (although it was so fun); it was about signaling "This is a team. Our team." The cereal lunches weren’t about nostalgia; they were about creating shared memory. The Aloha Fridays weren’t about decor; they were about rhythm—work, pause, work.

High-performing teams are not built through pressure alone. They’re built through cohesion. And cohesion is cultivated.

There’s a difference between being busy and being bonded. Busy teams execute tasks as quickly as possible. Bonded teams build on that and create momentum.

Looking back, I don’t remember the complaints nearly as vividly as I remember the work we co-created over the next several years, the risks we took, the ideas that only surfaced because someone felt safe enough to say, “This might be crazy, but…” That’s the real return on investment. As leaders, we talk about strategy, metrics, headcount, growth curves. But culture is a multiplier.

When your team is disconnected, they can feel that. Strategy and workload feel heavier, gloomier—an "I have to get this done now" kinda feeling. When your team feels connected and bonded, even hard seasons can feel navigable. They lift one another up. They step in when someone is overwhelmed. They don't worry about the perceived "risk" of sharing a wild idea.

You don't need elaborate retreats to create this kind of environment. You just need to be paying attention—creating small, intentional moments that bond. So push the laptops aside sometimes. Create something tactile. Share a meal. Laugh. Then, get back to work, stronger and better.

The best teams don’t just collaborate—they belong.

Dance of the Sky Dragons is a twist on Puff Puff Painting’s aurora borealis tutorial. I love, love, love her. She makes painting feel accessible and joyful, and she fully embraces the mess—encouraging you to stop over-perfecting your art. Something I need to hear daily, if I’m being honest.

Visually, my painting turned out very similar to the tutorial, but I was able to see beyond that. I wasn’t just painting a beautiful night sky—I was, once again, turning to my ancestors for guidance. The lights weren’t the Northern Lights. They were generations watching, guiding, moving nimbly through the sky above me.

That’s what inspired Dance of the Sky Dragons.

​Once upon a time there was a girl, born to be soft but forced to be feral. 

She grew up, as we all do, and time had hardened her. The armor she wore was never meant for her but life insisted she needed protection.

One day, she met a man. He bombed her with love—bursts of devotion, promises wrapped in urgency—slowly chipping away at the walls she had built until she stood stripped bare, like a war-torn city mistaking quiet for peace.

She felt naked. Exposed. And, at first, protected by this metaphorical prince. 

As days turned into years, she softened. She set the armor down piece by piece, believing she was finally free from its weight.

Slowly, she realized he wasn’t a man at all, but a wolf in sheep’s clothing—promising softness, yet preying on her kindness.

Looking back, she hears the howl differently.

Funny how we call them wolves but wolves aren’t weak. Wolves protect their pack. Wolves aren’t cruel—they’re loyal. 

He was never the wolf.

She was.

​And when she bared her teeth, the sheep ran. 

My love of art has been with me for as long as I can remember—and now my toddler shares that same love. Creating has become something we do together, side by side, hands busy and hearts open.

Lately, we’ve been experimenting with collaborative paintings, letting curiosity lead and perfection fall away. One of those pieces felt especially meant to be shared, so we decided to create it for my mom—Nana to her—for Valentine’s Day.

This was inspired by Puff Puff Painting's Valentine's Day painting tutorial.

The Long Way Love Travels: A Mother/Daughter Collab

It starts as a flutter in your heart, then moves to your stomach. Love travels that way. Softly. Slowly.

It grows, as does your body, until one day your heart is suddenly outside of you. A piece of you now roams the Earth alongside you. 

Love fills the air, allowing you both to grow strong and tall.

Then one day, that piece of your heart that you would never take back multiplies again. Somehow, your heart grows even bigger.

The fresh love in the air fills your lungs. You breathe freely, knowing the supply of love you give and receive is endless and will be carried forward for all time.

Resolutions? Nah. Word of the Year? HELL YEA!

In the past, I’ve always chosen a word to anchor the year. Something intentional. Something guiding. But the last few years? I’ve been engulfed in life—just trying to keep my head above water. Now that the storm has broken, I’m “getting my pink back,” as the kids say.

And for 2026, my word is Duality.

​duality
noun
du·​al·​i·​ty
the quality or state of having two different or opposite parts or elements 

I have a Libra stellium which means balance isn’t optional—it’s instinct. I move through life like it’s a see-saw, adjusting between family, ambition, self-care, and the constant demands of the world. Push too far to one side and everything tips.

And maybe that’s the problem—balance isn’t the same as integration. I’m learning to live in the shadows. To move with the current instead of fighting it. To speak my inner truth—even when the voice in my head is begging me to keep the peace.

I spent nearly twenty years in a male-dominated field fighting for my place, sanding down the edges of who I really was. My spiritual side lived behind a curtain, allowed to peek out only for those in my inner circle. Having my daughter changed that—permanently. 

I don’t want to live a life where I can’t openly speak about talking to the moon each night, about the quiet magick of belief, about the kind of power that rises when I trust myself fully. And I don’t want her believing she has to choose between being powerful and being palatable.

The duality of all of this has led me to redefine power. Power doesn’t have to mean certainty and control—it can also mean presence and intuition. Sometimes we don’t need to be loud. Sometimes we need to STFU and listen to the voices the wind carries.

Living in the patriarchy, I was raised to believe success was tied to output—life measured in wins. Promotions, praise, raises—those were the receipts. Proof of my value. Proof that I mattered. I liiiiived for work.

​Looking back, many of my “friendships” in the industry were built on productivity. We talked about work. How to do more. How to accomplish more. How to win harder. But that’s not what I wanted—or needed. I just didn’t know it yet. Distance from the AV industry has given me clarity. Some of my former “closest” friends weren’t friends at all. They were colleagues. Sounding boards. Energy consumers. People who needed my mind, not my heart.

I realized productivity made me feel protected. If I was useful, I was safe. I didn’t have to be vulnerable. I didn’t have to say how I really felt. I just had to “work on my soft skills”—(the biggest eye roll of my life; yes, a female boss actually said that to me)—and everything would be fine. Being paid for my mind while hiding my spirit was a strange kind of dichotomy. You want to hear me speak—but only if my words are sticky and sweet like honey. As the saying goes, "I’m no longer shrinking myself to be more digestible. They can choke."

Some people think I’m the kindest person they’ve ever met. Others… well, not so much. And that’s where the duality comes in—I treat people how they’ve shown me they deserve to be treated. I am sweet as pie to those in my circle. I would do almost anything for them—sometimes even to my own detriment. But not everyone gets that version of me. Some get Professional Megan. Polished. Boundaried. Cordial. They don’t understand why they don’t get access to the softer side. It’s because they’ve tipped those metaphorical scales too far.

Here’s the thing, though—I don’t want to live in a constant state of rebellion or sticky sweetness. I don’t want to swing between armor and honey. I want both.

I’m embracing my shadow side, and I’m realizing it doesn’t dim my light. When dark and light meet in the middle—when neither is trying to overpower the other—that’s when the magic happens. I don’t have to choose. I don’t have to split myself in half to survive. Duality isn't conflict, it's permission. I can be in my soft-girl era and my villain era at the same time. And which side you get to see… well, that’s up to you.

A seed was planted and so it began. It broke through the soil as a vulnerable twig dancing in the wind. Growing quietly and steadily, bathed in the the light, it flourished.

With nourishment from Mother Earth, it strengthened. New limbs formed. New life followed. It blossomed with all the goodness its environment offered. The branches moved in unison, swaying together, protecting one another—after all, they shared the same roots, and what was good for one was meant to be good for all.

As the tree grew, its roots grew stronger, anchoring it to Mother Earth as deeply as possible. Its branches expanded too, stretching outward and blooming in all directions. Some reached so high they lost touch with the roots below. They began to absorb the toxins in the air—and discovered they liked the taste of bitterness.

They couldn’t get enough of it, in fact. They breathed it in willingly, deeply, again and again, until the poison spread from branch to branch. Some partook eagerly in the ritual of darkness, greedily gulping up the toxins as if starved for them.

Others, however, remembered the light. They pushed the toxins away and continued to bloom—beautifully, in fact. These branches flourished in the light, forming vibrant new buds. They fully embraced the nourishment Mother Earth provided, carefully protecting what was tender and new, sheltering their delicate growth from the darkness that lived within the tree itself.

As more life bloomed in the light, the ecosystem began to fracture. A hairline split appeared—small at first, almost imperceptible. One half of the tree grew dark and gnarled, ugly in every way, consuming toxins as if they were candy. The other chose the light, believing the world held more good than bad, embracing all the complexity nature offered and standing resilient—stronger than the storm.

The roots remained. They had always been the same, they would always be the same.

But the split? That is permanent. The light could no longer pretend the darkness was harmless. What was growing chose protection over proximity, ensuring the next generation would bloom unbroken.

In May, we’re once again participating in March for Babies—a cause that’s deeply personal to me.

I’ve experienced firsthand how difficult having a preemie can be. The long days in the NICU. The exhaustion that seeps into everything. The constant stress, uncertainty, and postpartum challenges that come with it. It’s an experience that changes you—and one no family should have to face without support.

Unfortunately, these stories aren’t rare. Preterm birth and maternal mortality rates are rising in the U.S., and the impact is felt most deeply by families who already face barriers to care. But the good news is this: research, advocacy, and access to better care save lives. They truly do.

That’s why I’m raising funds for March for Babies. Every dollar supports programs, research, and initiatives that help ensure moms and babies get the healthiest possible start—before, during, and after birth.

If you’re able to donate, please know that every contribution matters. No amount is too small, and every gift helps move this mission forward.

And if you’re local (or just love a good walk for a good cause), I’d also love for you to join us on May 17. Walking together is a powerful reminder that families don’t have to go through this alone—and that community matters.
Thank you for reading, supporting, and caring about healthier beginnings for moms and babies everywhere.

Click here if you feel called to give or walk alongside us. 💜