Everyone Has a Story. Here’s Mine.

Wealthy or Not? My Story of Family, Motherhood, and Redefining Success

It’s a question I recently asked on social media, and the guesses came in. Not only on posts but via messages as well.Some of you imagined “city girl” others guessed “small-town country roots.”

The truth? It’s more complicated than either guess—and it shaped everything about who I am today.We all make assumptions about people based on what we see on the outside. Their home. Their car. Their clothes. But here’s the thing: those assumptions are rarely the whole story. And in my case, the story might just surprise you.

When I asked “Wealthy or not?” it wasn’t just about money. It was about the labels people place on us, the assumptions they make, and the way those narratives can stick—whether they’re true or not.

These are the kind of questions that get interesting… and they’re exactly what led me to share more of my own story here.

Where I Grew Up

I grew up in a small town of about 5,000 people—but my house sat out in the country. A 1300-square-foot farmhouse built in the early 1900s, tucked on a gravel road between cornfields.

Living in the country, you could hear vehicles coming from a mile away—the crunch of gravel and the cloud of dust rising behind them. The air smelled fresh most days, except for the occasional whiff from the cow farm down the road. My bedroom window faced west, and every evening the sunsets poured through my curtains, painting the walls with light.

Some of my best memories were working alongside my grandparents in their garden or picking fresh blackberries. I always hoped for two things: not to hit a thorn and not to run into a snake. Either way, it was worth it when the berries turned into a warm pie, fresh from the oven. That’s the kind of lesson country life teaches you—you put in the work, and you enjoy the outcome.

How It Shaped My Values

I didn’t grow up with wealth, but I did grow up with lessons that shaped me.

One of the clearest memories I have is the first time I bought something brand-name. It was my senior year, and I found a discounted dress from American Eagle for about $40.

I had earned that dress—babysitting, mowing lawns, saving every dollar I could all summer long. And that dress made it all the way to my freshman year of college. Every time I saw it, I felt proud. Not because of the label stitched inside, but because I worked for it myself.

That’s what my childhood gave me: resourcefulness, hard work, and presence. Values that would follow me into adulthood and shape the way I see success today.

Judged From the Outside

But even with those values, judgment still found its way in.

I’ll never forget the first time someone called me a “prep.” It happened in the middle of a crowded hallway at school. I overheard a group talking, and one of them called out, “She’s such a prep.” It wasn’t said kindly—it was meant to put me in a box.

Here’s the thing: when “prep” is used as slang in a derogatory way, it typically refers to preppy individuals—students or graduates of prestigious prep schools, often tied to old money, privilege, and a polished, upper-class look (think polo shirts and blazers). It’s a label that carries assumptions of wealth, popularity, and exclusivity.

But that wasn’t me. Most of my wardrobe came from hand-me-downs and Goodwill racks. On rare occasions, maybe JCPenney.

And yet—even knowing it wasn’t true—the label got under my skin. It chipped away at my already fragile confidence and made me wonder what else people thought about me.

Another moment came earlier, at my first middle school dance. My best friend and I got ready at her house—curling irons, a little makeup, and disposable cameras in hand. I had never really worn a dress before, so that night felt like a milestone.

For a while, I felt confident—posing for silly selfies with friends, enjoying those awkward middle school moments. Until I ran into a parent I had known for years. Their first words were: “Wow, you clean up real nice.”

Maybe they meant it as a compliment. But for a young girl who was just starting to find her footing, it felt like confirmation that all the other times, I hadn’t been “enough.” And just like that, my fragile confidence crumbled.

That’s the sneaky way comparison works. Psychologist Leon Festinger, who first described social comparison theory, put it this way: “People evaluate their own opinions and abilities by comparing themselves to others for self-evaluation.”

In plain English? We measure ourselves—and even reshape ourselves—based on what we think others see.

Those moments taught me something important: labels can stick, even when they’re not true. But they don’t have to define us.

When Life Tested Me Even More

I married young—just 19, with Garrett at 21. We were two broke college kids trying to figure it out, but we were determined to make it work. Our wedding was at a local golf course that had just changed ownership, and we scored the venue for $200. Hell yes. It wasn’t fancy, but it was ours.

The funny thing? That same golf course is now a luxury wedding destination. Back then, it was just a little place in transition. But to us, it was everything.

We said “I do” in July 2010 and left for New York shortly after. By fall, we were in a one-bedroom apartment across from Gate 4 in Fort Drum, NY. The following summer, August 2011, I planned my first baby shower. In October, our daughter was born.

But nothing about those years was easy. Garrett was deployed during my first pregnancy. We lived on letters, care packages, and five-minute phone calls that meant everything. Silence was the hardest part.

There were restless “blackout” nights when I would sit, shaking, wondering if the worst had happened. In military life, a blackout wasn’t just poor connection—it meant something terrible had occurred. All communication would be cut off until the next of kin were notified.

Those blackouts could last days, sometimes weeks. And the longer the silence stretched, the heavier it became.

August 20th , 2011.The morning of my baby shower is seared into my memory. Just before it began, I made a quick run with a friend—another military wife—to grab extra plastic forks. As we loaded the SUV, my phone rang. The ringtone—“Crazy Girl” by Eli Young Band—was Garrett’s.

My stomach flipped. Excitement rushed in, tangled with dread.

When I answered, Garrett’s voice cracked. He told me that five of his friends had been killed in an IED explosion onAugust 10th. Just ten days prior.His grief poured through the line. My friend and I sat in the car, stunned, hurting for him and for the families whose lives had just been shattered.

Minutes later, I had to walk into a room filled with balloons, cake, and laughter. That day was never just about celebrating my daughter. It was about holding grief in one hand and hope in the other.

Weeks later, another moment shook me. A snowstorm rattled our windows late one night, my mom visiting to help as I neared the end of pregnancy. At 11:30 p.m., there was a knock.

My whole body froze. Every military spouse knows that knock. I begged my mom to answer.

A state trooper stood at the door. My knees went weak. In seconds, my mind pictured the worst—raising my baby alone, loss, devastation.

But he was looking for a neighbor. Relief and rage hit me at once—relief it wasn’t Garrett, anger that a casual knock could carry so much terror.

Two months later, it was Christmas Eve. Garrett was still deployed, most military wives had gone home, and I was alone with my newborn. On a whim, I decided to drive the 12 hours back to Indiana through the night. At 3 a.m., my mom opened the door to find me on her porch, daughter in tow. Her cries of joy echoed through the neighborhood. Scaring the rest of the family awake. It was a special moment.

That first Christmas with a newborn will stay with me forever.

But life didn’t slow down. Another deployment overlapped with the birth of our second child. Miscarriages, health scares, and loneliness followed. Through it all, fellow military wives became lifelines. Nobody could understand like they did.

Those years taught me something money could never buy: perseverance, perspective, and presence.

Between Loss and New Life

After deployments and raising two kids under two, I started to wrestle with who I was outside of being a wife and mom. I loved my family, but I needed something that felt like mine.

So I enrolled in dental assisting school in Brentwood, TN. I traveled for classes, interned at dental offices in Nashville, and fell in love with the energy of the city. At that time, working in dentistry gave me three things: money to support our family, purpose for myself, and still enough flexibility to be a mom.

Around this time, Garrett lost his dad. That loss stirred big conversations about the future, including getting out of the military. At the time he was stationed at Fort Campbell, KY, and we lived just across the line in Tennessee, 20 minutes from post. Eventually, we decided to rent out our Tennessee home and move back to Indiana, closer to family.

At first, we squeezed into a three-bedroom townhouse for a year before finding a small home within our budget. We fixed it up, making it ours. We dreamed of another baby, but that dream came with heartbreak—multiple miscarriages, including one at work. With no answers from doctors, I made peace with what my body could handle and chose gratitude for the two children we had.

Not long after, Garrett’s career shifted again, bringing us to southern Indiana. We just finished moving into our home. A beautiful space for us to grow as a family an host family gatherings. Life was good.

Then came 2020.

In February, I started feeling off. By March, two bold pink lines confirmed what I thought impossible: I was pregnant again. Then the world shut down.

This time, the pace of life shifted with me. Garrett was home, the kids were home, and for the first time we were able to experience a pregnancy together. There were no late-night phone calls from across the world, no blackouts, no wondering if he’d be there when the baby arrived.

But pregnancy during a pandemic wasn’t easy. I had injections every week in my arms. Garrett couldn’t come with me to ultrasounds or appointments. Every time I entered the office, there were temperature checks, masks, and the same question: “Do you have any symptoms?” Underneath it all was the worry—the fear that after everything we had already been through, he might not even be allowed in the delivery room.

Those were challenging days. But against all odds, he was. He was there for me, for our newborn son, and for himself. That moment—after deployments, separations, blackouts, and years of uncertainty—felt like a gift I’ll never take for granted.

Choosing My Own Path

After our third child was born, I started to think seriously about business again. I’d been in college courses , leaning toward dental school, but my creative side wouldn’t stay quiet.

I dreamed of opening a women’s boutique. At first, it felt impossible. I had no idea where to start. So I researched for nearly a year, joined a group with mentors, and prepared myself to leap.

Then came the fork in the road.

The same day I got my call from the university dental program with news and earlier that afternoon, Garrett and I were just on the phone with our lawyer forming the LLC for Riah Jane & Co. Two life-altering choices—and I had to decide.

In the end, I chose what I wanted, not what was expected. From that day forward, Riah Jane & Co. became my path.

What started as a boutique turned into something much bigger. It gave me community, connection, and confidence. It reminded me I wasn’t just a wife or a mom—I was a whole person with vision and purpose.

Even after I closed the boutique, I didn’t see it as failure. It was a foundation. Every lesson, friendship, and sacrifice carried into the next chapter. Which I am still building off of today.

The Labels Don’t Stop

As I stepped into business ownership, the judgments just shifted.

When I first started my boutique, people would ask me how it worked, often in ways that undermined what I was building. I felt like I had to defend myself constantly. They didn’t see the year I spent learning everything I could before even filing for my LLC. They didn’t see the late nights soaking up knowledge, the pop-ups I traveled to, or the grind of building an online shop from the ground up.

When I finally opened a brick-and-mortar store, I was proud—but the questions and comments didn’t stop.

“How can you run a business and raise children?”
“Shouldn’t you be at home taking care of your kids instead.”
“Must be nice having money.”

Some comments were even harsher, ones I’d never repeat here.

The hardest part wasn’t just hearing those words—it was that they often came from people in my own community. Instead of encouragement, I got doubt. Instead of celebration, I got criticism. Some even assumed someone else must be running the business, or thought it was a franchise instead of a locally owned shop.

And yes, there were complainers—people who always had something negative to say. That even included family members.But there were also the cheerleaders: the women who walked through the doors faithfully, who told their friends, who reminded me why I started in the first place. They were the ones who made the hard days worth it.

One of the biggest lessons I learned in those years was this: you can’t expect your family and friends to be your biggest supporters. Sometimes they don’t understand your vision. Sometimes they can’t see what you’re building until it’s finished. And that’s okay—because the dream wasn’t given to them, it was given to me.

And here’s the truth: when you start a business, people will project their opinions onto you—good, bad, and everything in between. But at the end of the day, I didn’t sign up for a sorority. I signed up to create a business.

It wasn’t about popularity. It wasn’t about pleasing everyone. It was about building something meaningful—for my family, for my community, and for myself.

It stung at times. I would tuck my kids into bed, collapse on the bed, and wonder if the critics were right. Was I doing too much? Was I letting someone down?

But then I’d look at my children—healthy, happy, loved—and I’d remember: I wasn’t failing them. I was showing them what it looks like to chase a dream, to work hard, and to create something meaningful.

As Rachel Hollis says, “Someone else’s opinion of you is NONE of your business”, and that became a mantra for me in those years.

Sociologist Erving Goffman once said that in life, people act like performers on a stage—showing the parts of their life they want others to see. When all we see is the “performance,” it’s easy to misjudge the full story. That’s why assumptions rarely tell the truth.

What Wealth Really Means to Me

When people ask if I grew up with wealth, they usually mean money. But I’ve always known wealth in a different way—through my family, my values, and my health.

For many, wealth equals dollar signs. For me, it looks like living a simple, easy-going life. I grew up rich in the things that matter most.

I had the gift of being raised close to my grandparents. My aunts and uncles felt more like older siblings and mentors. Our family was tight-knit, and that kind of connection felt like wealth to me.

Life, of course, throws its curveballs. When my grandfather passed away, I learned how loss leaves ripple effects that never truly fade. As time went on, we lost more family members and friends. And those moments changed me. They reminded me that time is too precious to waste.

Values remain the same, but the decisions you make shape the life you want. And part of those decisions means setting boundaries—protecting what matters most. Boundaries around how I spend my time. Boundaries around the expectations I choose to carry. Boundaries that protect my family, my peace, and the kind of life I want to build.

So many people get caught up in monetary living that they forget what true wealth means. We’re judged constantly—by appearances, achievements, or assumptions—and sometimes all the good we pour into the world can feel unseen.

But for me, wealth will always be measured in love, in family, in health, and in living by my values. And boundaries are what help me hold onto those values when the world tries to push in.

The Bigger Lesson

If there’s one thing I want you to take away, it’s this:

-Everyone has a story.
-Everyone starts somewhere.
-You can’t always know someone’s truth by looking at the outside.

Along the way, I’ve also learned something else: the biggest boos usually come from the nosebleeds, and the people cheering you on the loudest are right there in the front rows.

You can’t make everyone happy. And the good news? You don’t have to.

Live by your values and expectations—not theirs. Because the people who matter most aren’t judging you from a distance. They’re the ones leaning in close, supporting you, and celebrating with you along the way.

And here’s the truth: there’s always more to the story. I know there’s more of mine still to tell. But for now, this is just a simple glimpse into who I am, where I come from, and the values that ground me.

Your Turn

If you’ve ever felt mislabeled, misunderstood, or judged by appearances—me too. That’s why I’m passionate about building a life and business rooted in what matters most.

So now I’d love to hear from you: what’s one lesson from your childhood (or your own story) that still shapes you today?

Drop it in the comments—I can’t wait to read your story.