Barefoot, Bruised, & Bossy

If you didn’t grow up in Southeast Alaska running around in rain boots and eating snacks you found in the woods, did you even grow up here?

I was raised in the thick of it—leading two wild younger twin brothers who believed shirtless was a lifestyle, mud was camouflage, and any stick longer than your arm was certainly legally classified as a sword.

And me? I ran right with them.

Barefoot. Bruised. Bossy.

Just as tough—if not tougher—and definitely twice as loud.

I was the self-appointed trail guide, rule enforcer, and emergency medic. I could throw a rocks too, run just as fast, climb a tree faster, and negotiate peace treaties over the last pack of fruit snacks like a seasoned diplomat.

Let’s be honest: growing up with brothers is like surviving in the wild—but there is more fart jokes and less mercy.

We built forts that were probably technically shelters.

We created “booby traps” with fishing line and duct tape.

We hauled buckets of crabs up from the dock, “raised” tadpoles in Tupperware, and considered eating smoked salmon a competitive sport.

If someone got hurt, the rules were clear:

Don’t tell Mom. Shake it off. Unless it’s actually bleeding—then probably should go tell Dad, but act like you’re fine.

I learned a lot growing up like that.

How to gut a fish, bait a hook, and swim in 58° water without squealing.

I learned that boys listen better when you say something twice as loud, and when that didn’t work, I learned to lead by example (and occasionally, by sheer force of will).

And somewhere between all the scraped knees and rope swing burns, I learned how to love like a sister who was always in it with them.

Not on the sidelines. Not waiting to be invited.

Right there in the thick of it, yelling “WAIT UP!” and “I get the front seat this time!”

We were wild, but we were loyal.

We could fight all morning and still be back to back in a Nerf gun war by afternoon.

There was no holding grudges—just holding our breath while daring each other to jump off the pier at high tide.

Now I’m raising wild boys of my own, and I can see it plain as day:

That same spark.

That same chaos.

That same muddy magic.

And I just pray that one day, they look back on their childhood the way I do— as a beautiful mess of scraped elbows, inside jokes, bossy older siblings, and bonds that only get stronger with time.