Before we get started, I need to say something. I know I spend a lot of time writing about women for women. I write about church ladies with worn-out Bibles. I write about friendship, faith, heartbreak, beach weekends, growing older, finding your place in the world, and all the complicated, beautiful things that come with being a woman. If you've been around Sassy Frass with Class for any length of time, you've probably figured out that I have a soft spot for strong women, So

Welcome to Backyarduhdeena. A luxury coastal destination located somewhere between my backyard pool, a beach playlist, and pure South Georgia delusion. The weather forecast currently calls for sunshine, floating around with no responsibilities, afternoon thunderstorms at exactly 4 p.m., and occasional trips inside for snacks. People spend thousands of dollars chasing the exact vibe I accidentally created with a tumbler full of fruit water, frozen strawberries and lemons, a Bl

Last night, I had one of those dreams that stays with you long after you wake up. The kind where you open your eyes the next morning and still feel the softness of it sitting on your chest like a warm blanket. And honestly, maybe taking double Lyrica to calm my nerves helped a little, but whatever caused it, the dream felt peaceful in a way real life has not lately. Alt Text: Pink Sassy Frass with Class graphic featuring a blonde woman in pink sunglasses holding a coffee cup

There’s something about baby showers and bridal showers that makes me want to check my calendar… and suddenly become very, very busy. And before anyone clutches their pearls, hear me out. It’s not that I don’t love celebrating people. I do. I will show up, bring a gift, hype you up, tell you that you look beautiful, and mean every word. I’m a girls’ girl at heart. But if I’m being honest, it’s not really about the parties themselves. It’s about what those rooms feel like. I

I’m writing this because I want to remember it, not just what happened, but how it felt to be in that room. Not the details you can easily explain later, but the feeling you carry with you when you walk out, the tension, the quiet discomfort, the things that don’t always make it into words. I don’t want to brush it off or minimize it later. I want to remember it clearly, exactly as it was, because it mattered. I’m sure it’s just a coincidence that Birth Control pills were giv

This time of year, I start turning into the sun goddess version of myself. You’ll find me chasing light, craving warmth, and looking for any excuse to be outside like it’s my full-time job. A stylized portrait of Leslie with blonde pink hair, wearing heart-shaped sunglasses and a necklace, smiling. laying poolside There’s something funny about the word active. Somewhere along the way, people decided it only counted if you were running, lifting, sweating, tracking steps, closi

Somewhere between getting dressed just because it feels good and opening my laptop like I run a small empire, I turned 32. There’s something about that in-between space, not a beginner anymore, but not fully “arrived” either, where life feels both soft and powerful at the same time. I check my calendar like a CEO with lip gloss, not because my life is perfectly organized or planned years in advance, but because I trust myself to handle whatever shows up on it. My days aren’t

This blog is a blend of my wisdom and hers, two women, similar stilettos, different seasons, similar truths. So sit with it, feel it, and enjoy. ✨ There’s something special about the friends you meet online, the ones who, from the very first conversation, feel familiar in a way you can’t quite explain. You haven’t shared a hometown, you haven’t sat across from each other at a table, and maybe you’ve never even heard each other’s voice out loud. But somehow, they see you. Not

Because real life doesn’t always look polished. Some mornings it’s a full routine and a color-coded planner. Leslie in the bed with flamingo sheets Other mornings it’s dry shampoo, a phone full of emails, and me answering messages from the comfort of my bed while whispering, “Alright Jesus… we’re doing our best today.” But the blog still gets written. The calls still get made. The work still moves forward. And honestly, that’s the real miracle of it all. Because sometimes fai

March always feels a little different. Maybe it’s the early hints of spring, the way the light starts staying a little longer in the evening. Or maybe it’s the quiet reminder that this month is about the women who shaped the world before we ever stepped into it. Women’s History Month isn’t just about the famous names in textbooks. It’s about the women who shaped us in smaller, quieter ways. a stack of patchwork quilts The ones who showed us what strength looks like in everyda

Last weekend I had the opportunity to present with I DECIDE Georgia at the National Youth Advocacy & Resilience Conference. Being in a room full of young advocates who believe in voice, choice, and resilience reminded me exactly why this work matters. Supported Decision Making is not just a policy conversation. It is about real people building real lives with support and confidence. Those rooms always leave me feeling a little energized and a little humbled at the same time.

Most folks think of a Bloody Mary as a brunch cocktail loaded with vodka and stacked high with bacon, shrimp, or whatever else the bartender finds in the fridge. Not mine. My Bloody Mary is a little different, and trust me, it tells a story. Here’s how I make it: tomato soup with plenty of water stirred in (because who wants it too heavy first thing in the morning?), a dash of basil, a sprinkle of lime pepper, a splash of dill pickle juice, and, because I’m me, a cheese stick

First, a quick apology for being late for Valentine’s Day. In my defense, I consider Valentine’s less of a day and more of a season… like Christmas, but with more chocolate. So technically, I’m not late. I’m just celebrating on extended time. Part of why I’ve always loved Valentine’s Day is because, in my family, it’s never been just about romance. It’s always felt like a second Christmas. February 14th was my grandmother’s birthday, and my grandparents met on Valentine’s Day

There are moments in history when one woman’s decision quietly changes everything. Elizabeth Blackwell made one of those decisions. Born in 1821, she became the first woman in the United States to earn a medical degree, not because the world was ready or doors were open, but because she believed women belonged in the rooms where life, death, dignity, and healthcare were being decided. She didn’t step into medicine to make a statement. She stepped into it because she saw suffe

February comes with all the usual noise. Hearts and roses. Glittery cards. Couples smiling on every commercial as they have never argued over the thermostat. And for the longest time, I thought romance belonged to people in relationships. I thought love had to look a certain way. Roses. Chocolates. Matching pajamas on Instagram. But somewhere along the way, I learned something softer and truer. Romance is not just about boyfriends. It's how I treat my life. A romantic table o

One of the most patronizing things disability services do is talk endlessly about our goals when what they really mean is their goals for us . It’s framed as collaboration and encouragement, but in practice, those goals are decided in meetings people with disabilities didn’t lead, shaped by systems we didn’t design, and rooted in what makes providers comfortable rather than what makes lives meaningful. When people with disabilities don’t work toward those goals fast enough,

At the beginning of the year, nothing felt dramatic. There was no big announcement moment, no clear line that said, this is when everything changes. It started quietly, with work that needed doing and conversations that mattered. I said yes where it felt right, showed up where I was needed, and trusted that the rest would reveal itself in time. What most people didn’t see was that this year was also hard. Not dramatic hard. Just the kind of hard where you stare at your calend

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a pink sparkling graphic that says still standing, still choosing joy, still me I planned on ending last year with a ring on my finger. That part was intentional. It wasn’t impulsive or reactionary. It was a quiet hope I carried with me, rooted in the idea that some things unfold the way you picture them. In my mind, the ring came with a very specific story. A shared plan. A clear future. A sense of arrival that felt mutual and certain. What I didn’t plan was that the route c

I did not wake up one morning planning to enter my rock star phase. It just sort of happened the way fun things usually do, quietly at first. One laugh turned into another. One night stretched longer than I expected. And if I’m being honest, I don’t think I’d be standing where I am today without it. That season didn’t just give me stories. It gave me permission. Permission to stop shrinking my ideas. Permission to stop waiting for someone else to validate what I already knew