Be Thankful for the Stamps

When we moved to North Carolina, we had a four-year-old, a six-year-old, an offer letter for my husband… and a new construction house under contract.

No pressure.

Back in New York, we had done everything “right.” Advanced degrees. Careers with benefits. A home with a big price tag, PMI, and taxes that could make your stomach turn.

We even had a converted detached garage we rented out.

It flooded. Twice

From a mysterious second septic tank we didn’t know existed.

And even though on paper we were successful…the weight of that mortgage kept us up at night.

So we leaped and moved to Brunswick County.

Shortly after we arrived — while living with family — we realized the job that brought us here wasn’t the right fit for Danny.

And suddenly, the dream felt fragile.

We were under contract on our new home. We couldn’t lose it.

So I found a teaching job.

We closed at an incredible price. We made upgrades slowly. Thoughtfully. Danny found his way into film. We simplified.

Low mortgage. One car payment. Two kids. No credit card debt — if we could help it.

We were okay.

But “okay” isn’t the same as secure.

So I went to real estate school.

I studied at night. I passed my exams. I affiliated.

And then reality hit.

Building a business on one income is expensive.

My broker in charge gave me one piece of advice:

“Go all in on your neighborhood. Farm it. Send handwritten letters.”

Handwritten letters.

I wrote them at my kitchen table. Stacks of them. Personal. Thoughtful. Hopeful.

I remember standing in the post office buying stamps and feeling physically flushed at the total.

It felt reckless. Like I was spending the last of what we had on a wing and a prayer.

But I mailed them anyway.

And one of those letters got me a listing.

That sale got me another listing.

And that one led to another.

And it snowballed.

Since December of 2019, I’ve sold around 50 homes in the very neighborhood I was told to go all in on.

Not because I was the smartest in the room. Not because I had the biggest budget. But because I decided to serve the people right in front of me — relentlessly, gratefully, wholeheartedly.

Here’s what I’ve learned:

Sometimes the scariest investment isn’t the house.

It’s the stamp.

It’s the moment you choose to bet on yourself when your voice is shaking.

When your bank account feels thin.

When the future is uncertain.

The stamp is the act of faith.

And if you’re willing to go all in —on your neighborhood, on your people, on your craft, on your calling —

It can change everything.

So work as hard as you can for the people you serve.

Go all in.

And be thankful…

for the stamps that almost made you cry.