I use to spend whole afternoons, looking for four leaf clovers
When I was little, my family called me Lucky Lindy. My dad was a pilot, and I was named after Charles Lindbergh, the first person to fly solo across the Atlantic. His nickname was Lucky Lindy. Somewhere between that and growing up in an Irish family, the name just stuck.
My childhood was full of four-leaf clovers and Irish music and Irish folklore stories about luck. I used to spend whole afternoons on my hands and knees in the grass behind our house, searching through clover patches completely convinced I was going to find one.
I had the classic magical 90s childhood. Playing outside with the neighbor kids until the lights came on, building forts in the forest behind our house, jump rope competitions, rollerblading, reading dozens of books a day and always writing stories.
Somewhere along the way, I lost her. Lucky Lindy, I mean.
I stopped writing stories. I stopped making things. I stopped trusting that the playful, imaginative parts of me were worth keeping around. Little by little, through survival and adulthood and trauma and perfectionism, I buried her.
This is what Lucky Lindy Co. is for.
And then I became a mother. Which is not the easy part of this story. Some seasons of motherhood have been the hardest of my life. I’ve been overstimulated, touched out and completely emptied and I’ve gone in my room and cried more times than I can count.
Motherhood didn’t fix anything.
But it did wake something up.
Because the moment I started thinking about the kind of childhood I wanted for my kids. The slowness, the magic, the freedom, the creativity, the pure whimsy of life. I realized I was describing something I already knew and once was. And in trying to give that to them, I started finding my way back to it myself.
That’s what this space is. It’s not about aesthetic motherhood or picture-perfect homes or performing a beautiful life for the internet. It’s about finding the parts of yourself that got buried somewhere under all the noise and the need and the exhaustion.
I think a lot of mothers are quietly carrying that. The invisible weight of being constantly needed while slowly losing track of who you actually are underneath all of it. The grief of a self you can’t quite locate anymore or just don’t even remember.
I don’t think we need more pressure. I think we need to slow down, to make things, to let ordinary days be enough because we are together, to find the magic that was always there without turning it into content.
That’s what I’m building here. Slow motherhood. Magical childhood. Cozy homemaking. Nervous system softness. Small moments that make real life feel like something worth being inside of.
Lucky Lindy was never really gone. She was just waiting for me to come back for her.
And I think maybe, if you’re here, a part of you is looking for that too.