A Cup of Ambition for Dolly

Dolly Parton was an icon in our house.

But probably not for the reason you might think.

It wasn't her music that introduced Dolly to my girls. It was books.

Every month, books arrived through Dolly Parton's Imagination Library, and over the years, she became part of our family in a way that had nothing to do with music at first. She was the woman  with the "great hair and big smile" who made sure my girls and many other children had books in their hands.

Then came the music.

Then requests to go to Dollywood.

Then Hannah Montana.

And somewhere along the way, Dolly became part of the soundtrack of our family.

Especially 9 to 5.

For years, that song has been our morning anthem. We'd blast it on the way to school, singing at the top of our lungs. We'd dance to it in the kitchen while I was trying to get everyone out the door. Sometimes we'd play it when my phone was already ringing, while I was trying to make lunches for the day and it wasn't even 8am in the morning.

It was our way of saying:

Okay. Let's go. We've got this.

So when I heard that Dolly had left this place, I knew exactly what I would play the next morning: 9 to 5.

The same dance party started.

My girls sang.

I sang.

I was still stumbling out of bed and pouring myself a cup of ambition.

But something felt different.

For the first time, I heard that song from the other side.

Because for the first time, I am my own boss.

And suddenly, those lyrics weren't just funny or catchy. They felt deeply personal.

My ambition is my own.

I'm building my own ladder.

My ship is in.

The tide has turned.

I'm more than just getting by.

My mind is my own.

And the credit goes to me—

or, if I'm being honest, to Someone much greater than me.

There is something strange and beautiful about realizing that a song you have sung a hundred times can suddenly mean something completely different.

Dolly wrote 9 to 5 decades ago. It became an anthem for working people who were tired, underpaid, overlooked, and ready to reclaim some power.

For me, today, it felt like something else.

It felt like a celebration.

A reminder that I get to decide what I build.

What I give my energy to.

What kind of work I want to do.

And perhaps most importantly, who gets to have power over my day.

No one has enough power over my day to drive me crazy anymore.

That's a pretty remarkable feeling.

So this morning, I danced with my girls.

We sang Dolly's song just like we always have.

But this time, I heard it differently.

And I couldn't help but think about how beautiful it is that a woman my children  first knew because she put books in their hands has now given us a new anthem for a new chapter for our family. 

Thank you, Dolly.

Thank you for the books.

Thank you for the music.

Thank you for showing my girls that women can be faithful, God and family loving, funny, generous, ambitious, wildly successful, and completely themselves.

And thank you for giving us a song we can sing together at the top of our lungs—

on the way to school,

in the kitchen,

or whenever life starts ringing before we're even ready for it.

This morning, 9 to 5 sounded a little different.

Maybe because, for the first time,

I'm the one holding the ladder.

And I think Dolly would understand exactly why that makes me want to dance.