I’m not comparing myself to anyone. I know we only see tiny, carefully selected pieces of other people’s lives. But sometimes it still feels like everyone else received a manual for how to manage motherhood, while I’m over here wondering why I can’t seem to handle it all.

I don’t feel like this every day.

But today was one of those days.

Belle was up at 4:30 this morning, which meant I was awake with her until 6:00. By the time I finally fell back asleep, the day was already waiting for me.

My parents were here. Ben’s children were here. Breakfast needed to be made. Beds needed to be made. Laundry was piling up. Belle wouldn’t nap. Work was way overdue. Decisions needed to be made about the basement. And once again, I was trying to find reliable help while managing everything without it.

At some point, I felt like I was choking under the weight of my own life.

Not because my life is bad.

Because my life is full.

I am a mother, a stepmother, a wife, a daughter, a business owner, and a breadwinner. I care for my baby, try to be present for my stepchildren, look after my parents when they’re here, run a home, manage a business, meet deadlines, and make countless decisions that nobody else even realizes need to be made.

And some days, my brain becomes so full that it simply stops working.

I can’t focus enough to speak to a client. I can’t find the words to answer an email. I stare at my to-do list knowing exactly what needs to be done, but I am so emotionally maxed out that I cannot make myself do any of it.

For me, that is one of the hardest parts.

I am a doer. I am used to being capable, productive, and responsible. When I can’t accomplish what I set out to do, it doesn’t just frustrate me. It makes me question myself.

Some days, if I’m being completely honest, I question every life decision I have ever made.

Not because I don’t love the people in my life. Not because I’m not grateful for what I have. But because when you are exhausted and overwhelmed, your mind can make everything feel impossible.

A difficult moment can convince you that you have a difficult life.

But those are not always the same thing.

I love my family. I’m deeply grateful for my life. But gratitude does not erase exhaustion.

You can love the life you prayed for and still feel completely overwhelmed by the responsibility of carrying it.

You can adore your child and desperately need a break.

You can be grateful for your work and feel incapable of answering one more email.

You can love your family and still feel crushed by how many people need something from you.

None of those feelings cancel out the love.

I also believe that as we get older, life becomes fuller. Our responsibilities become heavier, our stresses become larger, and more people depend on us. We may be raising children while caring for aging parents, managing careers, homes, marriages, finances, and everything else life has placed on our shoulders.

Motherhood doesn’t replace those responsibilities. It gets added to them.

Sometimes I wonder whether I’m failing as a mother when the truth is that I’m simply trying to do the work of several people without enough support.

And I’m not writing this for pity.

I’m not looking for anyone to tell me how strong I am or how lucky I am. I already know how blessed I am.

I’m writing this because I know I cannot be the only woman who has looked at her life on a hard day and thought, “Why can’t I handle this better?”

I’m writing it because maybe another mother needs to know that the woman she thinks has it all together sometimes sits in her car feeling like she is one small inconvenience away from falling apart.

Today, I did not have it together.

I felt frustrated, depleted, unproductive, and stretched beyond my capacity. But maybe being a good mother isn’t about having it together every day.

Maybe it’s about continuing to show up, even when the laundry isn’t folded, the email isn’t answered, the work isn’t finished, the baby won’t sleep, and you have absolutely nothing left to give.

I’m writing this from the car while my baby, whom I am enormously grateful for and who is the beat of my heart, is finally asleep at 4:00 p.m.

So, good luck to me at bedtime tonight.

That’s motherhood, isn’t it?

Feeling completely overwhelmed and overwhelmingly grateful at exactly the same time.

If today was one of those days for you too, I want you to know that I get it.

You are not failing because you feel overwhelmed.

You are not ungrateful because you need help.

You are not a bad mother because you reached your limit.

And the fact that you questioned everything during one impossible moment does not mean you want a different life.

It may simply mean you are carrying more than one person was ever meant to carry alone.

Some days are not meant to be conquered. Some days are simply meant to be survived.

A hard day is not a verdict on your motherhood, your choices, or your life.

It is one hard day.

And tomorrow, we begin again.

With love, Chaya

Maybe you folded a few loads of laundry, answered some emails, picked the kids up, ran one errand, or made a quick dinner. On paper, it doesn’t seem like enough to leave you feeling completely drained. And yet, by the end of the day, you feel like you have absolutely nothing left to give.

Lately, I’ve been thinking that maybe we’re asking ourselves the wrong question. Instead of asking, “What did I do today?” maybe we should be asking, “Where did my energy go?”

Belle had a fever that lasted four days. I wasn’t running from appointment to appointment or checking twenty things off my to-do list. But every few hours I found myself looking at the clock.

When can she have medicine again?

Is her fever coming down?

Is she drinking enough?

Why does she feel warmer today?

Even when she was sleeping peacefully, my mind was still with her.

By the end of the day, I noticed I hadn’t shown up on Instagram the way I normally do. I didn’t have the energy to make supper. I didn’t feel like answering my phone.

It wasn’t because I had done so much.

It was because I had been carrying so much.

That’s when I realized something.

Every morning, I think we wake up with a certain amount of energy. I picture mine like a pizza. Eight slices. That’s all I get.

One slice might go to work.

One to my family.

One to my marriage.

One to my home.

One to making breakfast, lunch, and supper.

One to laundry.

One to friendships.

One to thinking about finances.

One to taking care of myself

Some days I realize I’m already borrowing slices before the day has even begun.

On a good day, everything gets a slice.

But life isn’t made up of only good days.

Sometimes one thing quietly takes half the pizza.

Maybe you’re waiting for IVF results and every thought circles back to your phone.

Maybe you’re preparing for a transfer and wondering if this will finally be your month.

Maybe your child is struggling.

Maybe you’re worried about money.

Maybe you’re making a difficult decision.

Maybe you’re dating and wondering if they’ll text.

Maybe someone you love is sick.

Maybe you’re carrying something that nobody else even knows you’re carrying.

Those things don’t always make us look busy.

But they absolutely use energy.

I’ve also realized something else about myself.

I love a full house.

I love hearing laughter throughout the rooms.

But I’ve realized that when my house is full, my energy gets used differently.

I’m making breakfast.

Then lunch.

Then supper.

I’m making sure everyone has what they need.

I’m wondering if someone is hungry.

If someone needs a drink.

If the laundry is done.

If someone needs a bath.

If someone is having a hard day.

If everyone’s okay.

My mind is constantly scanning.

Constantly anticipating.

Not because anyone asked me to.

Because that’s how I’m wired.

To someone else, it might just look like a house full of people enjoying themselves.

To me, it’s dozens of tiny decisions and quiet acts of care happening all day long.

That doesn’t make having people over a bad thing.

It simply helps me understand why, afterward, I crave a little quiet.

Why I sometimes need to sit with a cup of coffee.

Or go for a drive.

Or take a bath.

Not because I don’t love the people in my life.

Because I’ve spent a lot of slices loving them.

I also realized that some of the biggest drains are the invisible ones.

They’re the thoughts running quietly in the background all day long.

The conversation you keep replaying.

The decision you still haven’t made.

The uncertainty.

The waiting.

The overthinking.

The expectations.

That one really hit me.

Sometimes we spend so much energy expecting people to show up a certain way, say the right thing, remember something important, apologize, call us back, notice our effort, or become the version of themselves we wish they were.

When they don’t, we’re disappointed.

Not because they necessarily did something wrong.

But because we had already spent so many slices on expectations they never even knew we had.

The truth is, we can’t always control where our minds go.

We can’t flip a switch and suddenly stop worrying.

We can’t instantly stop caring.

But we can become aware.

And awareness changes everything.

A friend recently told me that one of the most life-changing purchases she ever made was a Tesla.

At first I thought she was talking about the car itself.

She wasn’t.

She said driving requires constant attention. Watching every lane. Every merge. Every car around you.

The self-driving features took away some of that mental work, and she realized she had more energy left at the end of the day.

I haven’t stopped thinking about that.

It made me wonder…

What else can I simplify?

What can I automate?

What can I delegate?

What can I let go of?

What doesn’t deserve another slice of my pizza?

Ben will sometimes ask, “Aren’t you going to answer your phone?”

Sometimes my answer is no.

Not because I don’t care about the person calling.

But because I know I only have a few slices left.

And I want to spend them at home.

I want enough energy to make supper.

To sit together.

To laugh.

To hear about his day.

To be fully present instead of physically present.

I’ve also started asking myself a different question before I commit to something.

Not…

“Do I have the time?”

But…

“Do I have the energy?”

Because those are two very different questions.

One of the biggest lessons I’m learning is that not every season is supposed to be balanced.

There are seasons when your children need more slices.

Seasons when your marriage needs more.

Seasons when work needs more.

Seasons when your health needs more.

Seasons when your own healing takes almost everything you have.

That doesn’t mean you’re failing.

It means you’re living.

The goal isn’t to divide the pizza perfectly.

The goal is to spend your slices intentionally and without guilt.

The beautiful part is that some things give us slices back.

A walk outside.

A fresh cup of coffee.

A hot bath.

A quiet drive.

Sitting in the sunshine.

Reading a few pages of a book.

Putting on your favorite face cream.

Listening to music.

Calling the friend who always leaves you feeling lighter.

Watching your baby laugh.

Tiny things.

But sometimes tiny things refill us in big ways.

So tonight, before you go to sleep, ask yourself three questions.

What gave me energy today?

What took energy from me today?

Was it worth the slices it cost?

This week, don’t try to change anything.

Just notice.

Notice what fills you.

Notice what drains you.

Notice which people leave you feeling lighter.

Notice which thoughts quietly follow you all day.

Notice where your slices are going.

Because awareness comes before change.

I think we spend so much of our lives protecting our calendars.

Maybe it’s time we started protecting our energy.

Because we don’t just spend our energy on what we do.

We spend it on what we carry.

Sometimes we aren’t exhausted because we’ve been doing too much.

Sometimes we’re exhausted because we’ve been carrying too much.

And sometimes we’ve been carrying things that were never ours to carry in the first place.

Tomorrow morning you’ll wake up with another pizza.

The slices will be spent.

They always are.

My hope is that, little by little, we become more intentional about where they go.

Because at the end of the day, your calendar tells you where your time went.

Your energy tells you what received a piece of you.

With love ❤️

Chaya

Today someone sent me a message saying they missed the old days. The days when influencers shared recipes, food, photos, and pieces of their lives without affiliate links, promo codes, sponsored content, and advertisements.

And honestly? I understood exactly what she meant.

She wasn’t being mean. She wasn’t attacking me. In many ways, she was grieving something that existed on the internet years ago. And if I’m being truthful, sometimes I miss parts of it too.

When I started sharing online 13 years ago, I was not trying to become an influencer. I was not trying to build a business. I was not looking for brand deals, affiliate commissions, promo codes, or partnerships.

At the time, I was working as an ABA therapist with autistic children. I was also a reading specialist in Prospect Park, and I tutored. Social media was not a career. It was simply my creative outlet.

I remember my brother telling me about this new thing called Instagram. At the time, I was very busy on Facebook and had no idea what Instagram even was. I asked him, “What is it?” and he said, “It’s kind of like Facebook. You post pictures of things you like.”

I said, “Well, what should I post?”

He said, “I don’t know. Post what you like.”

I said, “Well, I like food.”

Then I asked him what he posted, and he said, “Planes.”

That was it. That was the business plan. He posted planes. I posted food. And somehow, here we are.

It was fun to take a picture of a steak I made, a dinner I cooked, or a table I set and put it online. It felt simple. It felt creative. It felt like a little portfolio of things I loved.

Then the questions started. Where is that plate from? What pan do you use? How long do you cook it? Can I freeze it? Who are you cooking for? Which coffee machine is that? Where did you buy it? Would this work for my family? Can you send me the recipe?

And I loved answering. I still do.

But what started as sharing slowly became serving. I don’t mean that in a negative way. I mean that in a beautiful way. A recipe that once took ten minutes to post suddenly became an hour of conversations. A recommendation became dozens of questions. A simple photo became a discussion. And over time, those discussions became a community that I absolutely love and consider a very real part of my heart.

The truth is that most people only see the final product. They see a story, a recipe, a table setting, a recommendation, or a link. What they don’t see are the hours behind it: the testing, the cooking, the photographing, the editing, the writing, the emails, the contracts with brands, the negotiations, the customer service, the direct messages, and the emotional energy.

And I want to be very clear. This is not a complaint. I genuinely love what I do. I feel incredibly lucky to do it. But I also think it’s important for people to understand what content creation actually looks like behind the scenes.

Because content creation is not just creating content. It is creating connection.

Over the years, many of you have invited me into your homes and your lives. You have shared with me how something I posted inspired your home, your table, your recipe, your pregnancy, your business, or your next step. Some of you have told me you froze your eggs because of my journey. Some of you have written to me about infertility, marriage, motherhood, loss, grief, fear, hope, and decisions that changed the course of your lives.

I have received thousands of messages in my direct messages over the years. And in return, I have invited you into my little corner of the world.

You watched me date. You watched me redo the room in my parents’ house. You watched me move into my first home. You watched me get engaged. You watched me go through a broken engagement. You watched me freeze my eggs. You watched me navigate IVF. You watched me become a stepmother. You watched me become a mother. You watched me celebrate wins, and you watched me survive losses.

Some of those losses I shared publicly. Some of them I did not.

For over a decade, I have given pieces of myself to this space. And if you really think about how well many of you know me, most of that relationship was not built through affiliate links. It was built through connection.

The morning coffee videos. The gratitude talks. The recipes. The tablescapes. The articles. The chats. The joy. The moments that made us laugh. The moments that made us cry. The vulnerable thoughts. The things I shared because they were on my heart.

Most of that has never generated a dollar.

Nobody pays me to write from my heart. Nobody pays me to type out a recipe. Nobody pays me to answer messages late at night. Nobody pays me for the emotional energy that goes into showing up consistently. Nobody pays me for the pieces of myself I have given here.

And that is okay, because I genuinely love this space.

This Instagram family has gotten me through some of the hardest seasons of my life. There were days when showing up here gave me purpose. Days when it gave me connection. Days when it gave me joy. Days when it made me feel like I mattered.

But there is another truth that I think people don’t always consider.

It is not just social media that changed. I changed.

When I first started, I was single. I had a full-time job, but outside of that, I had far more freedom over my time. Social media filled a creative void for me. I could spend hours cooking, photographing, writing, answering questions, sharing, creating, and engaging. Quite honestly, I was a content-producing machine.

Then life happened.

I got married. I bought a home. I became a stepmother. I became a mother. I experienced IVF. I experienced loss in very painful ways. I took on responsibilities I never had before.

And while I would not trade any of those things for the world, they changed me. They changed how I spend my time. They changed where my energy goes. They changed what matters to me.

I think sometimes people want creators to stay exactly as they were when they first found them. But that is not how life works.

The woman I was 13 years ago is not the woman I am today. And I don’t think any of us are supposed to stay the same.

As our lives evolve, our content evolves too. The recipes may become less frequent. The food content may look different. The conversations may become deeper. The priorities may shift. And sometimes it may even be cyclical. There may be seasons with more recipes, seasons with more home, seasons with more motherhood, seasons with more thoughts, seasons with more links, and seasons where real life simply needs more of me.

That does not mean I care less. It means life requires different things from us during different seasons.

The reality is that content creation does not happen in a vacuum. It happens alongside real life. And real life will always come first.

There are seasons when life feels light, and there are seasons when life feels heavy. When there are doctor’s appointments. When there are fertility treatments. When loved ones are sick. When children need more of us. When family needs more of us. When marriage needs more of us. When we are carrying things privately that never make it online.

Those are often the moments when people ask why creators are not posting as much, or why the content looks different.

The answer is simple. Because showing up here requires energy. Not just physical energy. Emotional energy. Creative energy. Heart energy.

When I have already given most of myself to the people I love, there is not always as much left to give online.

That is where monetization comes in. Not because creators are greedy. Not because we are trying to sell something every second. But because this became our profession.

Every industry has advertising. Television has commercials. Podcasts have sponsors. YouTube has ads. Streaming services have ads. Newsletters have sponsors. Content creation is no different.

The difference is that behind most creator accounts is a real person. A person who spent hours negotiating a discount code. A person who tested the product before recommending it. A person who answers the messages. A person who genuinely cares whether the recommendation helped.

And for me, that person has always been me.

There is no social media manager answering my messages. There is no content team creating my posts. There is no marketing department negotiating my deals. There is no assistant handling the emotional labor. It has always been me. Just me.

I sometimes wish I could spend every day sharing beautiful tables, recipes, gratitude, and life lessons without ever thinking about monetization. But like every family, we make decisions based on what is best for our household. This business helps support our family, our goals, our future, and the life we are building.

And if I was not doing this, I would need to spend that time earning a living somewhere else. If all my energy went somewhere else, I would not have nearly as much left to give here.

That is the part I think people miss.

The links are not replacing the content. The links are helping make the content possible.

They allow me to keep showing up. They allow me to keep creating. They allow me to continue investing time, energy, and heart into a space that I love so much.

And please know this: you never have to buy anything.

If a product resonates with you, wonderful. I would be honored if you used my link. If it does not, simply skip it. No guilt. No pressure. No hard feelings.

But when you do choose to support a creator, it means more than you probably realize.

Last week, someone sent me a screenshot of a pricey skirt she had already found on her own. She asked me to send her the link back so I could earn a small commission, as a thank you for all I do and for the ways I inspire her.

I nearly cried.

Not because of the commission. Because of what it represented.

It did not make the skirt more expensive for her. It did not cost her anything extra. But it told me she understood. She saw the work. She valued it. She appreciated it. She wanted to support me in a way that was thoughtful and simple.

That small gesture meant more to me than she will probably ever know.

So when I share a link, bear with me. When I take on a brand deal, I hope you stand by my side. You do not have to buy everything. You do not have to love everything. You do not even have to click on everything. But if you have been here for a while, I hope you understand that the links are one small part of a much bigger relationship.

I love what I do. I am grateful for what I do. I would not be anything without this community. I would not trade this Instagram family for anything.

At the end of the day, the links are not the reason I am here. The connection is.

It always has been.

And it always will be.

With gratitude,
Chaya

Motherhood is a series of the most beautiful bittersweet moments.

Not because you're unhappy. Not because you wish your life were different. But because the deeper the love, the more aware you become that time is moving.

Last night, at my niece's wedding, I found myself unexpectedly emotional during the mitzvah tantz.

I've watched fathers dance with their daughters before. I've watched mothers beam with pride. I've attended weddings. I've celebrated brides.

But this time was different.

This time, I wasn't just watching the bride.

I was thinking about her mother.

Somewhere in the middle of the dancing, while siblings took their turns and generations gathered around her, I realized my hand was pressed against my chest and there was a lump in my throat. The kind that arrives before the tears do. The kind that catches you by surprise.

I wasn't sad. I wasn't even entirely sure why I was emotional.

Then I looked at the father dancing with his daughter.

And then I looked over at Ben.

Suddenly, my heart understood something it had never understood before.

One day, that will be us.

One day, our little girl will stand at the edge of a life that belongs entirely to her. One day, she will build a home, create traditions, make choices, and become a woman with a story all her own.

And that thought took my breath away.

For a moment, I thought about my own wedding.

I thought about my mother sitting there, watching me begin a new chapter of my life. At the time, I understood it as a daughter. But I could never have understood it as a mother.

Not the pride.

Not the gratitude.

Not the overwhelming awareness of how quickly the years had passed.

I wonder what she was thinking as she watched me that day.

And for the first time in my life, I think I understand a little bit of what she may have felt.

I spent more than twenty years waiting to become a mother. Twenty years wondering if it would ever happen for me. Twenty years imagining what this kind of love would feel like.

What nobody tells you is that one of the hardest parts of finally receiving the thing you prayed for is realizing how quickly your heart starts racing ahead.

For twenty years, all I wanted was for time to move faster.

I wanted to get there.

To become a wife.

To become a mother.

To hold my baby.

And now, for the first time in my life, I find myself wanting time to slow down.

Just a little.

Just enough to keep her tiny for one more year.

One more month.

One more day.

You finally get the miracle you've been waiting for, and suddenly every stage feels precious.

Sometimes I hold Belle's bottle and think about the day she won't need me to hold it anymore. Sometimes I reach for her tiny hand and wonder how many years I have left before she instinctively reaches for the world instead. Sometimes I watch her sleeping and feel overwhelming gratitude for the stage we're in right now.

Not because I want her to stay little forever.

But because I know she won't.

As I sat there watching the dancing, another thought quietly settled into my heart.

The room was overflowing with family. Brothers, sisters, in-laws, nieces, nephews. Generations woven together into one beautiful family tree.

And if I'm being completely honest, there was an ache there too.

The ache of wondering what Belle's future family table might look like.

The ache of becoming a mother later in life.

The ache of knowing our story unfolded differently than I once imagined it would.

As I watched sibling after sibling dance with the bride, I found myself thinking about Belle.

About the family table she will sit around one day.

About the brothers and sisters who may or may not be there.

About all the versions of motherhood I imagined when I was younger.

The truth is, when you become a mother later in life, time feels different.

You are grateful beyond words for the child in front of you.

And at the same time, you are acutely aware of the years behind you.

It's a strange thing to hold both gratitude and longing in the same heart.

To look at the life you've been given and think, "This is beautiful."

And also wonder what might have been.

Not because you would trade your story.

But because you're human.

Gratitude and grief are not opposites. Sometimes they sit right next to each other.

Motherhood has made me more grateful than I have ever been. It has also made me feel things I never expected to feel.

Not because I am unhappy with the life I have.

Because I love it so much.

I grieve the years I spent waiting. I grieve the version of life I once imagined. I grieve knowing that my parents will be older when Belle reaches certain milestones than I once thought they would be. I grieve the reality that time moves only forward.

And maybe that's what motherhood does.

It introduces you to a new kind of vulnerability.

Before Belle, most of my worries were about me.

Now I find myself thinking about time.

How quickly it passes.

How desperately I want to freeze certain moments.

How much I want the people I love to stay exactly as they are.

And yet, at the very same time, I want them to grow.

Because growth is the blessing.

Children grow. Parents age. Families change. New chapters begin.

Almost none of it unfolds exactly as we imagined.

But perhaps it unfolds exactly as it was meant to.

And somehow, if we're lucky, we get a front-row seat to all of it.

Maybe that's why I was emotional.

Not because I was watching a father dance with his daughter.

But because, for the first time, I understood the mother's seat.

I understood what it means to spend years pouring your heart into someone, only to one day watch them step into a life of their own.

And I understood what a privilege that is.

The ache isn't the story.

The love is.

With love,

Chaya ❤️

I am not here to talk about New Year’s resolutions.

I am here to talk about the question most of us never stop long enough to ask.

Not

what should I do next year

but

what do I actually want?

I do not think the problem is follow through.

I think the problem is that we rarely pause long enough to ask ourselves real questions.

What do I want to change?

What do I want to improve?

What do I want to work toward?

What do I want to dream about again?

So many people walk around saying, “I don’t know.”

Not because they don’t want anything.

But because they are busy keeping everything running.

Busy being needed.

Busy surviving.

There is no space left to think about themselves.

And sometimes, if we are honest, we are afraid to think.

Afraid to dream too big.

Afraid to say it out loud and then have to face it.

Afraid of another year passing without movement.

But life does not move toward vague hope.

It moves toward clarity.

If we never say what we want, how do we expect to get it?

How do we strive for it?

Work toward it?

Sacrifice for it?

Clarity is not pressure.

It is direction.

A reset is not about changing who you are.

It is about choosing how you want to live.

For me, this became especially clear after becoming a mother.

Being an incredible mother matters deeply to me.

But I have learned something important along the way.

My identity is not defined only by my child.

Choosing to grow, to dream, to live fully is not separate from motherhood.

It is part of what I want my child to see.

A woman who fills her cup shows her children what a full life looks like.

So pause for a moment.

Take a breath.

Take a pen, not your phone.

Pen and paper.

Give yourself a minute and do not edit yourself.

These are your goals.

Your visions.

Your dreams.

No one else’s.

Nothing is too big.

Nothing is too small.

No one is judging you.

You can write freely, or divide the page into categories.

What do you want in the coming year?

For yourself:

For your marriage or relationships:

For your health:

For your spirituality or inner life:

For your home:

For your children:

For your business:

For your future:

If “I don’t know” comes up, do not rush past it.

That usually does not mean you do not want anything.

It means you have been busy surviving instead of choosing.

It means you have not felt worthy of dreaming.

It means you have not taken the time to sit with yourself long enough.

But if you do not think about what you want, how will you ever get there?

Maybe you want to work on your marriage.

Not because it is broken, but because it deserves intention.

Maybe you want to feel more connected.

More playful.

More present.

Maybe you want to be more social.

Say yes more.

Host more.

Laugh more.

Not because you are lonely, but because you miss yourself.

Maybe you want to lose weight.

Go back to school.

Change careers.

Start a business.

Invest money.

Create something of your own.

None of these wants are shallow.

Wanting more does not mean you are ungrateful.

It means you are alive.

It means you care enough about your life to shape it.

Now comes the most important part.

Under each thing you wrote, write two small actions you are willing to take.

Not grand gestures.

Not perfection.

Just movement.

If you want to work on your marriage, maybe it looks like

ten minutes of connection every night with no phones

one intentional date a week, taking turns planning

If you want to improve your health, maybe it looks like

three walks a week

calling a nutritionist or signing up for a class

If you want to grow your business, maybe it looks like

one focused hour a week

sending the email, making the call, starting the thing

Small actions create momentum.

Momentum creates change.

Here is a quiet truth we do not say enough.

Doing nothing is still choosing something.

If you do not decide where you are going, you will spend another year watching other people move forward and wondering how they did it.

You do not need a new personality.

You do not need a vision board.

You need clarity.

A pen and paper.

And the courage to face what you want.

Say it out loud.

Write it down.

Let yourself want what you want.

I tell myself this every year.

I do not want to look back on my life and say,

I could have done that.

I should have done that.

This is your reset.

With ❤️ love,

Chaya

Breaking the silence around pregnancy loss can bring healing to others.

I used to think miscarriage was something whispered about.

Something that happened to “other people.”

Something women carried quietly so they wouldn’t make anyone uncomfortable.

Then it happened to me.

After nine rounds.

After bruises, hormones and hope that hurt to hold.

After convincing myself that maybe motherhood just wasn’t going to be my story.

A loss is still a loss even if it happened quietly.

And then one morning… the call.

“Your numbers are positive.”

I remember blinking, slow, confused.

Positive? What does that mean?

She paused, then in a soft voice said, “Congratulations. You’re pregnant.”

I couldn’t speak.

I couldn’t move.

My whole body went still as my heart tried to catch up.

And then the tears came.

Years of pain, fear and longing spilling out at once.

For the first time in a long time, I felt something like hope.

And then a few weeks later… the second call.

“The numbers are dropping.”

My entire body froze.

Dropping? What does that mean?

I needed her to say it, because my mind refused to understand.

She exhaled gently.

“I’m so sorry. You’re not pregnant anymore.”

Early doesn’t mean easy. Grief has no timeline.

I hadn’t told anyone I was pregnant.

So I didn’t tell anyone I wasn’t pregnant anymore.

The hope was private.

The loss was private.

The pain was private.

And that loneliness was brutal.

I also knew people would assume the grief was lighter because it happened early.

As if love checks the calendar.

As if the depth of connection is measured in weeks.

But you don’t lose “a few cells.”

You lose a future you already started loving.

You lose the life you imagined.

You lose the person you were becoming.

And if you’re blaming yourself right now, please hear me.

You didn’t cause this.

You didn’t fail.

Your body didn’t betray you.

Sometimes life ends before it begins, and it has nothing to do with anything you did or didn’t do.

Healing isn’t linear either.

Some days you’re functioning.

Some days you’re barely breathing.

And nothing is wrong with you.

This is what grief looks like when love has no place to go.

I remember saying I was done.

I couldn’t do this anymore.

I felt emptied out.

Exhausted.

Like my body had absorbed more heartbreak than one human should ever have to.

When we speak our pain, we soften someone else’s.

But I also know who I am.

I’m resilient.

Stubborn.

A fighter even when my heart feels thin.

I don’t quit, even when quitting feels like mercy.

And months later, when I finally shared my miscarriage out loud, something shifted.

The messages poured in.

Not fixing it.

Not replacing what was lost.

But stitching something inside me that had been torn.

I realized I wasn’t the only one hurting.

I wasn’t the only one carrying a quiet grief.

Connection doesn’t cure you, but it keeps you standing.

You don’t owe anyone silence.

You’re allowed to say “I lost something precious” even if the world never saw it.

You’re allowed to grieve deeply.

You’re allowed to need support.

You’re allowed to take as long as you need.

Wherever you are in your journey, you’re not doing it wrong.

There is no correct timing.

No correct response.

No correct next step.

Your path is your own, and it deserves gentleness.

That is why we have to talk about miscarriage more.

Not to relive the pain but to release the shame.

Not because it fixes anything but because silence convinces women that they’re alone.

We aren’t alone.

We never were.

We were just suffering in separate rooms.

Silence is heavy. Sharing is healing.

So this is me talking about it.

For the women who have been here.

For the women who will be here.

For the women who think their grief is too small to matter.

Your pain is real.

Your loss is real.

Your voice deserves to be heard.

With love,

Chaya ❤️

I didn’t become good at boundaries overnight.

It happened in tiny, surprising moments that made me realize I had quietly grown up.

The clearest one was this: my phone rang while I was sitting with Ben and the baby. He looked over, surprised, and said, “Aren’t you going to answer that?”

And for the first time in my life,…

Read more

Guilt used to feel like a passing thought.

Now, it feels like background noise. It’s just constantly there for one reason or another.

When I’m working, I feel so guilty that I’m not spending time with my baby.

When I’…

Read more

You know that feeling when your laptop starts to slow down and the fan begins to hum? You’re like, uh-oh, it’s overheating or overloaded.

Yep. That’s me.

That’s my brain.

A browser with forty-seven tabs open, most I don’t even need anymore.

The returns I never got done.

The laundry piled…

Read more

They say freezing your eggs is like buying insurance.

For me, it was buying time. Hope. A chance.

I was thirty-eight, single, and in Israel for my close friend’s son’s bar mitzvah.

It was a beautiful simcha filled with meaning and light, but being there alone wasn’t easy.

Everyone had someone. Except me.

And then a woman I didn’t even know turned to me and asked, “Where’s your husband?”

I smiled and said, “I’m single.”

She nodded, paused, and said, “Did you freeze your eggs?”

I was horrified.

How could someone ask me something so personal?

I left in the middle of the dinner to call my best friend, still shaking. I couldn’t believe someone had the audacity to ask such a private question. I was appalled. And honestly, I didn’t even know what egg freezing was.

It wasn’t talked about back then.

There was no awareness, no openness, no conversation.

But I couldn’t stop thinking about it.

I started googling obsessively and calling different organizations, but no one had information for single women. The only place that could guide me was ATIME.

That question, as intrusive as it was, planted a seed that would end up changing my life.

When I got back to New York, I couldn’t shake it.

I started asking questions I didn’t know how to phrase and realized how little I actually knew about my own body.

There were no Instagram stories.

No WhatsApp chats.

No one saying, “Hey, maybe think about this.” The word “egg freezing” wasn’t uttered publicly.

Especially in the frum world, it felt taboo, something whispered about behind closed doors.

The only real support I found was Vivienne at ATIME. She was my lifeline.

She explained what no one else did. She was kind when I felt ashamed.

She made me feel like I wasn’t crazy for wanting this. She told me I was courageous.

She even directed me to a clinic, and till this day, we’re still friends.

With a heavy heart, I decided to pursue it.

It was hard emotionally, mentally, and financially. I felt so alone.

I remember walking to the doctor’s office with my mother, who deserves full credit for coming with me. I know how hard it was for her. I cried through the entire appointment while she asked all the questions I couldn’t even form. I didn’t understand half of what the doctor said. It was all so new to me.

That night, before my first injection, I can still picture it: the vials lined up on my dresser, little bottles of science and hope.

I felt caught between two versions of myself, the girl who believed everything would just work out, and the woman learning that sometimes you have to do your hishtadlus, your effort, and let Hashem handle the rest.

I whispered a quiet tefillah and cried.

From fear. From worry. From loneliness. From acceptance.

It was that specific kind of loneliness that sits beside you even when you’re doing something brave.

And it was painful, both physically and emotionally.

The needles sting, but so does the silence.

Your body aches, your hormones rage, and your heart questions everything.

You inject hormones and then inject hope, wondering if you’ll ever use them, wondering if any of this will matter someday.

I remember thinking, How has my life come to this?

Eggs belong in a cake, not in a freezer.

But underneath the pain and the loneliness was a whisper of strength I didn’t know I had.

People think egg freezing is simple.

You go in, they take your eggs, you go home.

It’s not simple.

It’s early-morning bloodwork, ultrasounds, hormone injections, and mood swings that make you feel like a stranger in your own body.

It’s crying in your car after appointments.

It’s waiting for phone calls that hold your hope in a number.

It’s pride and pain living side by side, doing something brave while quietly grieving the life you thought you’d already be living.

After the retrieval, I sat in recovery wrapped in a thin hospital blanket, holding a paper cup of apple juice.

The nurse smiled and said, “We got 7 eggs.”

I smiled back, but inside I just felt quiet. Empty. Lonely. Hopeful. Scared. All of it at once.

I don’t live with regret, but I do wish I had known sooner.

If I had understood the science, the timeline, and how age impacts egg quality, I would have done it at thirty, not thirty-eight.

Here’s what I wish someone had told me then:

Your fertility is not forever.

Egg quantity and quality both decline with age, and it’s not something you can feel happening.

You can be twenty-five with low egg quality or thirty-five with great numbers.

Every woman’s body is different.

If you want to understand your fertility health, you can ask your GYN to run two simple tests:

AMH (Anti-Müllerian Hormone) and FSH (Follicle-Stimulating Hormone).

These tests give you a snapshot of your ovarian reserve, meaning how many eggs you might have left and how your body is responding hormonally.

It’s not a full picture, but it’s powerful knowledge.

Knowledge isn’t pressure. It’s power.

You’re not making a commitment by learning. You’re giving yourself options.

I think every woman in her thirties should explore this.

Because your body will never be as young as your eggs are right now.

Each year, the technology improves.

Each year, organizations like Bonei Olam, Puah, and others make it more accessible.

Every year, more women find the courage to do it, not because they’ve given up on love, but because they’re choosing action.

For some, Emunah means waiting for a miracle.

For me, it’s doing my part while trusting Hashem to do His.

It’s taking a step forward even when I can’t see the whole path.

When I went through the process, I truly believed those frozen eggs would one day become the beginning of my family.

But they didn’t.

My eggs weren’t viable. It was crushing, beyond words.

I wish someone had told me that could happen, that freezing your eggs isn’t a guarantee. It’s a possibility.

No one talks about that part, the heartbreak that can come even when you do everything right.

The quiet grief of realizing your safety net might never hold what you hoped it would.

But even though the outcome wasn’t what I prayed for, I wouldn’t change my decision.

It gave me peace, because I knew I had done everything I could.

Peace that came from knowing I had tried, that I had shown up for myself, and that I had taken action instead of waiting in fear.

It gave me pride, not because of the result, but because of the courage it took to start.

Maybe that’s the point, to know you did your part even when the ending looks different than you imagined.

I know it’s easy to tell yourself “maybe next year.”

I told myself that too.

But time moves quietly.

One day you wake up and realize you were waiting for the perfect moment that never came.

The truth is, there’s no perfect time, only your time.

And the best time to start is when it first crosses your mind… or when you read this.

That’s your nudge. That’s your sign.

That question at the bar mitzvah, the one that horrified me, ended up becoming the reason I started talking about egg freezing publicly.

It was uncomfortable and embarrassing at first, but I knew that if I hadn’t known much about it, there were other women who didn’t either. Someone had to start the conversation.

I believe one of the reasons Hashem gave me this platform was for this, to help women learn, to feel less alone, and to take ownership of their journeys.

Years later, what began as one awkward moment turned into something meaningful.

It became Instagram stories, late-night DMs, and a WhatsApp support group that has helped hundreds of women and, collectively, hundreds of thousands of eggs get safely frozen.

And many of those eggs have now become healthy, beautiful babies.

Maybe that’s why Hashem gave me a voice. To use it for something bigger than myself.

To bring life, possibility, and hope, even from a place of personal loss.

I sometimes think about that woman at the bar mitzvah, the one whose question made me blush with anger.

I used to wish she’d kept quiet. Now I thank her.

Maybe she was just a messenger, sent by Hashem to push me toward my purpose.

My story wasn’t a detour. It was direction.

A path that led me to help other women find courage, information, and community.

Even when something freezes, it doesn’t mean the story stops.

Sometimes it’s just waiting for the right season to thaw.

If you’re single, divorced, widowed, or simply not ready yet, this is your sign.

Don’t wait for the right time. Don’t wait for a ring. Don’t wait for the world to make sense.

Sometimes the bravest thing you can do is give your future self a fighting chance.

It’s okay to feel scared.

It’s okay to cry through it.

But don’t let fear decide your future.

Let knowledge, love, and courage lead the way.

I used to think freezing my eggs meant I had failed, or that I had to take control because no one else showed up.

Now I see it differently.

It was an act of self-love, of faith, of readiness for the life I didn’t even know was waiting for me.

And even though my eggs didn’t work, that doesn’t make the choice any less valid.

Because faith isn’t about knowing how things will end, it’s about believing there’s meaning even when they don’t go the way you hoped.

What once embarrassed me has become the thing I’m most proud to talk about.

My eggs may not have turned into children, but my story did.

And it’s still creating new beginnings, one brave woman at a time.

You are not behind.

You are not broken.

You are not late.

You are right on time for the life that’s still unfolding.

And if you’ve been waiting for a sign,

✨ This is it. ✨

with love,

Chaya ❤️

If this touched you or you’re thinking about starting your own journey, you can join my Egg Freezing WhatsApp Chat here https://chat.whatsapp.com/HAm9HXhktUV2Rcego2P1nJ?mode=wwc or follow me on Instagram https://www.instagram.com/chezchaya?igsh=MWxsNWU5MTNzMndqcQ%3D%3D&utm_source=qr @ChezChaya, where we keep the conversations real, warm, and full of hope.

When I got engaged the first time, I had the most magnificent ring.

A three-carat pear shape.

Perfect clarity. Perfect cut. Perfect sparkle.

It was my dream ring.

I remember the way it caught the light when I moved my hand, how I stared at it for hours, how every time I talked …

Read more

Change paralyzes me.

I cling to what I know, even when I feel deep down that it’s time to move forward. The thought of letting go makes my chest heavy, the kind of heavy that sits on you and doesn’t let up. My breath shortens, my stomach knots, my heart races. It feels like the ground beneath me is crumbling and I have no idea where my foot will land nex…

Read more

I walked into the hospital as a wife and left as both a wife and a mother.

Motherhood doesn’t ask if you’re ready.

It just hands you the baby and waits to see how you’ll rise.

It doesn’t matter what age you are when you leave the hospital with a baby in your arms. Nothing prepares you for the moment you realize you are responsible for a whole human being. It’s quite terrifying. I walked out of those hospital doors, and everything about my life changed in an instant.

The first month of motherhood has been a beautiful blessing. Overwhelming. Anxious. Miraculous. All at once.

I doubt myself constantly.

When she cries, I worry.

When she doesn’t cry, I still worry.

I worry about the formula.

I worry if I’m holding her enough.

I worry that the days are moving too quickly, and that I’m missing something important.

Recovery has been harder than I imagined. My body is not the same. A C-section leaves behind more than just a scar. A scar can ache and still be holy.

I cry often for no reason. And for every reason.

Some days I feel strong and empowered. I grew and birthed an entire human.

Other days I wonder if my body will ever feel like mine again.

The feeling is that my body is both broken and magical at once.

And then there’s the guilt.

I want to spend every moment with her. I waited so long to get here, and I don’t take one second for granted. Maybe the miracle of being an older mother is that I know what it means to wait. And because of that, every minute feels like holy ground.

But life doesn’t pause. Work doesn’t pause. Bills don’t pause.

I am constantly pulled between soaking in every minute and stepping away to keep the life around me afloat. The house. The meals. My work. My friends.

I love my work. I love my baby. And sometimes it feels like loving both means I am betraying one.

The truth is, my entire day now begins and ends with her. The first thought in the morning is whether she slept well, and the last thought before I close my eyes is whether she will have a peaceful night. She is the rhythm now.

And in this new rhythm, I feel an identity shift that is hard to put into words.

I am still me, but not only me.

I am hers. Her mother.

My name has changed in the quiet of my own heart.

There is a before version of me, and now there is this version. Both learning how to exist together.

I know what matters is presence as the time moves so fast.

The faint smile that may not even be real but still feels like the greatest gift.

The smell of her. The sound of her breathing.

The sucking sounds of the pacifier. The newborn smell. 

The milk drunk eyes. The post-bath lotion.

But threaded through it all is the fear of time moving too fast. She is already different from the newborn I first held in the hospital. Her cheeks are fuller. Her eyes stay open longer. Her fingers are longer. Her newborn stretchies had to be put away. Every day she changes, and every day I ache at how quickly she is growing. Every day I celebrate her, I also miss her.

And then there’s us. Me and him.

Marriage in this new season is a relationship I haven’t figured out yet.

We are partners, parents, teammates, and sometimes just two people trying to make sense of a life that changed overnight.

The truth is, becoming parents doesn’t only give birth to a baby. It gives birth to a new marriage too.

One that requires relearning each other, finding patience in new ways, and remembering that love looks different when there is a brand-new little human at the center of it all.

And here’s what I’m learning. Worry and love aren’t opposites. They’re dance partners. Worry means I care. Worry means I am already showing up.

Motherhood is also the only job where you can change a super dirty diaper and still feel like the luckiest woman alive. Gratitude doesn’t erase the exhaustion, but it softens it. It reminds me this is holy work.

And maybe this is bigger than just babies. Life is full of seasons where we are reborn into a role we never thought we would hold. This just happens to be mine.

The lesson of this first month is that presence isn’t about getting it perfect. It’s about being here.

It’s about learning new things daily.

It’s about knowing that I need to work to make a living, and that doesn’t make me less of a mother.

It’s about having the blessing of a night nurse and giving myself permission to rest, so I can show up with more love in the morning.

It’s about being willing to sit in the discomfort of doubt and still keep showing up with love.

Because maybe motherhood doesn’t wait until we are ready. Because the truth is, we are never really ready for the love that remakes us.

This isn’t just her first month of life.

It’s my first month of becoming a mother.

Two lives being born at once.

Hers and mine.

With love,

Chaya ❤️

Sometimes you’re the lifeline, and sometimes you need one.

They say relationships are 50/50.

But anyone who’s ever been in a one knows… that’s not always true.

Sometimes it’s 20/80.

Sometimes it’s 10/90.

Sometimes you’re showing up with everything you’ve got,

And sometimes… you’re just barely hanging on.

That’s not weakness…

Read more

There are few feelings heavier than watching the world move forward while you feel stuck in place. Everyone else seems to be reaching milestone after milestone: engagements, weddings, new homes, pregnancies, career promotions, vacations, renovations, and picture-perfect family photos. And then there’s you. Still waiting. Still praying. Still hoping. Sti…

Read more

Sometimes the deepest heartbreak is really your protection in disguise.

Six days before my wedding, everything I thought I knew about my future shattered.

The magical custom wedding gown was hanging. The headpiece was chosen. The flowers were ordered. My dream ring, a magnificent three-carat pear-shaped diamond, sparkled on my finger.

And then, just like t…

Read more

On waiting, gratitude, and the ache of missed seasons.

I used to think that when the dream finally came, it would erase all the years of waiting. That joy would wash away the grief of delay. That once I was living the thing I prayed for, the years I spent longing would simply disappear.

I was wrong.

When the miracle I thought might never come finally arriv…

Read more

Subscribe now

Some blessings grow bigger in silence. I learned that the hard way.

Because not everything holy belongs on a stage.

I’ve shared so much of my life online, recipes, reflections, even the messier parts of my journey. Sharing has always been how I connect. I believe that when I put words to my story, someone out there will whisper “me too” and feel a little …

Read more

We know this. We say it. We even repost it.

But sometimes, we forget

We scroll through Instagram and start tallying our shortcomings.

Her perfect challah. Her organized drawers. Her marble countertops.

Her vacation. Her marriage. Her clean kitchen. Her business.

Her children dressed in matching pajamas, while yours won’t even wear pants.

And we start to feel small. Inadequate. Behind.

But what we don’t see is what’s missing from the frame.

We don’t see that she cried that morning.

Or that she’s lonely.

Or that someone said something that made her feel like she wasn’t enough either.

I remember one year when I was single, living at home with my parents, and I built the most magical sukkah. I poured my whole heart into it. Every detail. Every layer. Every twinkle light. It was my outlet. My joy. My way of doing something beautiful when life felt like it was standing still.

People messaged me enviously:

“I wish I had time, but ugh I’m hosting my in-laws.”

“Your tablecloth and decor is gorgeous. I have to use plastic because of my kids.”

“Your decorations are goals. I’m hanging my kids’ scribbles and paper chains, I wish I didn’t have to.”

And while maybe they admired what I had built, I was quietly aching for what they had.

I would have traded my linen in a second for sticky fingerprints on that table.

I would have gladly hung glitter-covered popsicle sticks if it meant having a partner to do Yom Tov with.

It’s so easy to see what someone has.

Harder to see what they don’t.

That sukkah wasn’t just about decor. It was a reflection of longing. Of trying to create light in a season that felt lonely.

We’re all admiring each other’s lives while quietly aching in our own.

She may have the aesthetic, but she’s fighting to feel seen in her marriage.

She may be traveling solo in Italy, but she’d trade it in a second to come home to a baby.

She may have five smiling kids, but she’s drowning in noise and hasn’t felt like herself in years.

Everyone is carrying something.

Everyone is trading off something.

Everyone is doing their best.

A lot of people are doing a lot.

But no one is doing it all.

So if you’re scrolling and shrinking today, pause.

Put your hand on your heart.

Remind yourself: what I see is not the whole story.

And if you’re in a season where you feel like you’re behind, please hear me.

You’re not.

You’re just living your version of the in-between.

And it’s allowed to be messy, beautiful, hard, sacred, and ordinary all at once.

Your life doesn’t have to look like hers.

It just has to feel like yours.

With love always,

❤️ Chaya

Another year older.

Another year without the baby.

Without the partner.

Without the degree.

Without the house.

Without the version of life we thought we’d have by now.

For a long time, my birthday felt like a mirror I didn’t want to look into. It was the one day a year where I was reminded loudly of everything I didn’t yet have. I wasn’t married. I hadn’t become a mother. I hadn’t finished the things I said I would. It felt like the world handed me a cupcake and a candle and whispered, “Make a wish… and while you’re at it, maybe wish for a life reset too.”

And the thing is, no one talks about this.

We’re all just expected to blow out candles with a smile.

Most years, my inner voice whispered the same thing:

“I thought I’d be farther along.”

And then come the other quiet thoughts:

• Everyone else is doing better than me

• Everyone else is farther ahead

• I’m too old to still want this

• This isn’t how I imagined my life would look

Some people ignore their birthdays altogether.

Some secretly wait to be surprised and end up heartbroken.

Some over-plan so they don’t have to feel the emptiness.

Some stay in bed with a cupcake and a heavy heart

(And if you’re me, maybe also a backup cookie. Just in case 😉.)

I remember there were years I stayed in bed and cried. I didn’t tell anyone it was my birthday because part of me wanted to disappear, but another part hoped someone would remember anyway. That part always ended up disappointed. And somehow even more disappointed when someone texted “HBD” with no emoji. Like… thank you?

So I started doing things differently

I began to set my birthday up for success instead of letting it be a minefield of silent disappointment.

Even when I was single, my best friend and I would plan exactly what we wanted to do. We picked the restaurant. We made the plan. We took the day seriously. We celebrated each other because we were worthy of celebrating, even if no one else showed up.

Now, I do the same thing with my husband.

I tell him what I’d love.

A Broadway show.

A new restaurant.

A visit to that dreamy head spa I’ve been mentally living in since March.

I don’t drop hints. I say it straight. That alone has changed everything.

Because men, and friends, aren’t mind readers.

I also gently remind a couple of close friends that my birthday is coming up. Not because I need balloons and confetti, but because I know myself. And I know that unspoken expectations are a recipe for heartbreak.

Here’s what I’m learning

Gratitude and grief can live in the same room.

I can be grateful for the life I’ve built and still feel sadness for the parts that haven’t unfolded yet. I can be excited to celebrate and still feel a little raw when the day arrives. Both can be true. Both are real.

What if success looked different this year?

Success doesn’t have to be the house, the baby, the ring, or the picture-perfect birthday post.

What if this year, success looked like:

• More peace in your heart than last year

• Advocating for your own joy instead of waiting for someone to read your mind

• Saying “no” when you meant it

• Healing one more layer

• Showing up to your life, even on the hard days

That counts.

That’s growth.

That’s celebration, even if no one brings balloons.

A soft tip for anyone dreading their birthday

Don’t wait for others to make your day meaningful. Decide ahead of time what you’d love big or small and take it seriously. It doesn’t make you needy. It makes you intentional.

Your birthday is not a measure of how far behind you are.

It’s just a moment.

A reminder that you’re still here. Still becoming.

And that alone is worth celebrating.

So if your birthday is coming up and you’re already dreading it, make the plan, pick the cupcake, text your people.

Please don’t wait for the surprise party. Just saying.

With love ❤️

Chaya