It’s insane how I have to try to convince them to play with their toys and spend time in here. I am constantly trying to entertain and redirect them. Taking them places, doing crafts, changing scenery, it’s endless and usually doesn’t work.

Getting anything done is an insane, uphill battle. Laundry? Yeah right. Dishes? Only when they are eating. And if I try to start tidying one thing, they immediately start three new messes.

I’m constantly running but still seem to be staying still. If not moving backwards.

Have I given them too much? How do I gain more respect? I am constantly at my wits end and they are always testing boundaries and I am just here being beaten up, yelled at and walked all over while trying to remain calm, stable, supportive.

And somewhat put together.

Trying not to lose my identity. Trying to remain sane. Also while trying to find myself. Because sometimes I don’t know who I am or who I want to be.

I’m still struggling with my confidence, but that is nothing new.

I don’t know the last time I truly felt confident. Maybe in high school? But was that real? Maybe when I became a mom? Maybe when I wore a swimsuit? That is until I saw someone in better shape than me or looked in the mirror at my messy hair and makeup.

Wow, I am not nice to myself. But when I talk nice to myself it feels fluffy and fake and like it’s not real.

That is probably a big reason why I am not confident.

But how can I be confident? Neither of my parents even took the time to really get to know me and understand me. And I haven’t been able to hold onto a single friendship throughout my life without my husband being a part of it.

How does someone become confident? It seems so foreign to me. To not question yourself and see your faults just staring you in the face. To not replay moments and see how you could and should have handled every situation better.

I guess if I can’t even speak kindly about myself without a hint of feeling insincere or weird then how can I say I really love myself? And if I can’t do that then how can I be confident?

But again that begs the question, how does anyone?

Having a job? Having a social media following? Some reward or accolades probably.

I know I have always felt most confident when someone was giving me compliments, even though I don’t know how to respond except for saying “thank you” and making some self-deprecating comment to balance it out.

Which doesn’t seem to make people want to compliment you more.

How do you balance confidence and wanting improvement? I don’t want to let myself settle, I want to keep bettering myself and holding myself to high standards.

I have had a job and still not felt confident. I’ve been in good shape and not felt confident. So I keep coming back to thinking that maybe I don’t know myself yet. Maybe that’s where I should focus — learning about my strengths and embrace them and celebrate them.

I need to also be okay and accept mistakes and missteps. Feel less embarrassed when something goes wrong. It doesn’t define me.

It’s easy to say, like talking to someone else about how they can fix their problems. But not easy to do. To change how you’ve treated and seen yourself for as long as you can remember.

And honestly I don’t know if it’s even really possible. Maybe everyone else is just faking it for all I know.

I’ve been going through a lot of self-discovery over the past six months.
I’m done having babies. I’m figuring out who I am — not just as a mom or a wife, but as a woman in the world.
And, as it turns out, I’ve likely been autistic my whole life.
Undiagnosed. Misunderstood. Masking without knowing it.

That last part was hard to swallow.
I’ve never seen myself as performative. In fact, I’ve always prided myself on being brutally honest. I’m not the type to sugarcoat my feelings. I speak up. I call shit out. I don’t pretend to be perfect, and I don’t expect anyone else to either. Especially after growing up in a home where I had to hide so much — where the image of a perfect family mattered more than the reality inside it — being real has always felt like a core part of who I am.

So when I first read about masking in autism, I didn’t get it.
It felt like someone else’s story.

But then I started to notice something.
I might not hide my emotions — but I do spend a lot of mental energy wondering how I’m being perceived. Constantly checking:
“Do I seem lazy?”
“Am I doing enough?”
“Does he think I’m pulling my weight?”
“Am I the kind of mom I’d want to be seen as?”

That’s the mask.

Not a fake smile. Not a forced personality. But the quiet, relentless urge to manage others’ perceptions of me — instead of tuning into my own.

That’s the habit I’m trying to break.

One big step I’ve taken is trying to notice when I’m doing something because I think I should versus something I genuinely want to do. And yes, I know this sounds like advice you’d hear on a podcast or in some self-help reel. I’ve heard it too. I just never really digested it until now.

For example: I used to think, Of course I don’t want to do dishes or laundry. Who does?
But sometimes… I kind of do.
Folding laundry while watching a garbage reality show feels almost meditative.
Doing the dishes while the kids eat their eighth snack of the day gives my hands something to do.

Other times? I don’t want to.
And now, I let it sit. The house doesn’t have to be spotless. The laundry can wait. Even if my husband is cleaning, that doesn’t automatically mean I have to match his energy. His action isn’t a judgment on my inaction. And my rest isn’t laziness, it’s a choice.

That’s something I keep coming back to lately:
Even not choosing is a choice.

I’ve spent most of my life in motion. Solving, planning, fixing, tending. Choosing inaction was never part of my operating system — unless I was overwhelmed and shut down. But even then, I didn’t call it rest. I called it failure. I let things slide and panicked about it.

Now I’m trying to consciously choose inaction when that’s what feels right. Not as avoidance. As agency.
Sometimes doing nothing is the most responsible, most aligned thing I can do.
Sometimes “doing” looks like letting it be.

And sometimes, it looks like a glass of wine.

We lost our eighth offer on a home last week. I was devastated. I had already imagined our kids growing up there. It felt like everything was finally lining up.

And then we got outbid. Again.

That night, I wanted a glass of wine. And I found myself hesitating — not because I didn’t want it, but because I was afraid of how it might look.
Will he think I needed it? That I’m spiraling? That I’m irresponsible?

But then I paused.
I reminded myself: I know I don’t need it. I know I don’t drink too much. And I know he knows that too.
So why am I making myself small?

I wanted comfort. I wanted a moment of softness. I gave that to myself.
Not because I earned it. Not because I justified it.
But because I wanted it. And that’s enough.

What I’ve realized is that the mask isn’t some elaborate character I put on.
It’s all the small ways I shape-shift throughout the day.
All the ways I push past my own wants, instincts, and emotions in service of what I hope others will think of me.

That’s where I lose myself — not in the big-picture values or life goals, but in the minute-by-minute choices.

That’s where I need to start rebuilding.
Choosing not just what looks good, but what feels good.
Not for who I want others to see me as — but for who I actually am, right now.

That’s how I figure out who I am underneath it all.
That’s how I let others love me, not just the version I perform.

And that’s how I keep choosing myself — over and over again.

You don’t have to prove your worth. You just get to be.

I am tired.

Not just physically. I mean tired in the way that sits on your forehead like a weight. Tired in a way that makes the world feel like it’s moving past you too fast while you’re stuck pushing through molasses.

Everything feels like effort. Existing takes effort.

I’m not exactly grumpy, but I’m definitely not happy, or even content. I feel flat. Blah. Like if something good happened, I’d probably assume it was a fluke. And if something bad happened? Well, of course it did. Today already sucks.

If you read my last post, you know I’ve been trying to figure out whether or not I’m autistic. If you’ve read any of my posts before that, you know I’m also, reluctantly, a stay-at-home mom to two amazing, chaotic toddlers. And I’m tired in ways that no amount of sleep seems to fix.

Lately, I keep circling this question:
Where does my personality end and my autism begin—or is it the other way around?
What parts of me are just me being irritable or dramatic or too much?
And what parts are me simply struggling to function in a world that never seems built for how I work?

It all feels like a hodge-podge mess sometimes. But maybe that’s just life.

Yes, I got a full night’s sleep. No, the kids aren’t being especially wild today. Yes, my husband has been helping. I don’t even have PMS as a scapegoat—I'm post-period, supposedly at my hormonal “best.”
So why do I feel like everything requires 150% just to stay upright?

Why can’t I logic my way out of this mood?
Why are emotions so damn heavy and stubborn?

I know I “should” feel content.
But I don’t.
And that disconnect just makes it worse.

I hear people say things like “happiness is a choice” or “you just need a different mindset.”
Okay great. Change my mind, please. Sign me up. I’ll journal. Meditate. Work out. Whatever.

Well, maybe...
Because when I’m in this place, I don’t want to do anything. I just want to not feel like this.

And if I try to rest, I feel guilty. Like I should be doing something else. Which makes me anxious and self-critical and hyper-aware.
Welcome to the cycle.

One thing I’ve learned about autism so far is that my highs might be lower than what neurotypical people experience. And my lows? They tend to linger longer.
That tracks. For as long as I can remember, I’ve felt like I should feel happier. Not performatively happy, actually joyful, like I’ve seen other people be. Real people. Not just on Instagram.

And when something bad happens—some conflict, some overstimulating moment—it sticks with me. I carry it longer than I want to. I wish I could let go. But I can’t, not right away.

Also, and unfortunately, autistic brains process dopamine differently. Which means motivation can be harder to access. Feeling stuck is not just a mood, it’s neurological. It’s part of how my brain works.

Which is exactly how I feel right now.
I know I should go do something (work out, clean up, move my body, whatever) but I just want to sit. And then I feel guilty for sitting. Which ramps up the anxiety. Which makes it even harder to move. And around we go.

This loop is real. It’s called executive dysfunction—another fun autism feature. It’s when you know exactly what needs to be done, and you just… can’t do it. You freeze. You scroll. You cry. You stall. You watch yourself stall. You hate that you’re stalling. And still, you’re stuck.

So today, I tried to get unstuck by writing this.
And honestly? I think it’s helping.
Maybe this is my first step out of the fog.
Maybe I am making progress, even if it doesn’t feel like it.

Maybe I don’t need to fight so hard right this second.
Maybe I can give myself a little grace.

This lump in my stomach, the heaviness in my limbs, the fog in my brain—I can get past it. And I will.

But for now, I’m just going to keep moving forward, one slow, stubborn step at a time.

And if you’re feeling this way too?
You’re not alone.
I’m here, slogging through it with you.
Sometimes solidarity is the thing that helps us crawl to the next day.
Sometimes just knowing you’re not broken is enough to start again.

I’ve been trying to find myself — to understand who I am — for as long as I can remember. Trying to figure out my likes and dislikes. What’s really me. What’s just survival strategy.

And about five days ago, I found out I’m likely autistic.

That sentence still feels wild to type. I never suspected. Not once.

As of now, yes, I’m self-diagnosed. Or internet-diagnosed, if you want to be blunt about it. I’ve taken every online test I can find. I’ve read about late diagnosis in women. I’ve tried to disprove it from every angle: trauma, anxiety, maybe even ADHD.

But all signs keep pointing to autism.

Not the stereotypical version. No trains, no Rain Man memory banks, no hand-flapping. Although I am great at remembering numbers. Not savant-level, but definitely above average.

I’ve just learned how to mask. And I’m realizing now that the mask has been welded on for years.

I stim. Not in obvious ways, but it’s there. I make sound effects constantly. People have pointed it out my whole life. I bounce when I’m standing still, sway my hips without meaning to. I assumed it was just restlessness or personality.

As a kid, I fidgeted all the time. Especially in cars. I’d play with things in the cup holders, open the glove box, touch and explore everything I could reach. I didn’t even notice I was doing it — until my mom got annoyed and told me to knock it off. After that, I felt ashamed. Like maybe I was bothering other people too and they were just too polite to say anything. So I started making a conscious effort to stop. To sit still. To be "normal."

I also had strong, shifting sensory preferences with clothes. For a long time, I hated jeans. I don’t even remember why — just the way they felt. Then I flipped, and refused to wear anything but jeans. My mom found it exhausting. But I was just trying to follow what felt okay on my body.

Then there was the social stuff.

I always had one best friend. Singular. They were my person. My constant. I wanted to spend all my time with them. If they didn’t feel the same way, if they drifted or had other best friends, I felt crushed. Rejected. I didn’t understand it.

And I’ve always felt like I’m on the outside of every group I’m part of. On the fringe. Like I made the list, but barely. Like I’m the last one in the circle, but not really in it. That feeling hasn’t changed from childhood to now.

These things I thought were “just me being weird”? They’re not random. They’re patterns. They’re how I experience the world.

And suddenly, it makes sense.

I fall deep into interests. Painting by numbers. Crocheting. Knitting. House hunting. I dive in hard and get hooked completely. But I hide it like a guilty pleasure because I know it’s “too much.” I know most people don’t care. So I keep it to myself. Even though it lights me up.

I run constant dialogue in my head. Layered voices, plans, backup plans. I thought that was everyone. Apparently it’s not. I get rattled when plans change. I breathe through it. Power through it. Because that’s what life requires, right?

Turns out, maybe not. Maybe that’s just what I learned to do to survive.

It’s strange trying to explain all this. The quirks, the oddities — they go back as far as I can remember. But I always explained them away. I’m just particular. I’m intense. I’m anxious. I’m sensitive. I’m smart but not brilliant. Empathic but awkward. Functional enough to pass.

And I’m skeptical. Of everything, always. Especially this.

The way autism is portrayed in society doesn’t look like me. I’m a college grad. A mom. I have a steady relationship. A solid friend group. I’m warm and expressive. People trust me. I’m empathetic as hell.

So when I imagine telling someone — anyone — the fear kicks in.

What if they say, “You? No way.”
Or worse: “Isn’t everyone on the spectrum these days?”

Cue the awkward laugh. The retreat. The decision to never mention it again.

Because how do I accept something that no one else believes?
And how do I ask others to believe it when I’m still wrestling with it myself?

That’s the part no one prepares you for.
The unmasking hurts before it heals.

Still, I can’t un-know this. I’ve been spiraling — let’s be honest — researching in every rare spare moment I get between parenting two kids and keeping my life afloat. And weirdly, it’s been freeing. There’s relief in having a name for the way my brain works.

My husband gets it. He’s been along for the ride. He’s reading, learning, asking questions. That part helps. A lot.

But saying it out loud still makes me queasy. There’s a visceral discomfort that creeps in, as if naming it might make it more real. More permanent. More vulnerable.

Then come the questions about my kids.

Autism is hereditary. So what does this mean for them? What if they’re autistic too? What if they’re not, but end up absorbing all my neurodivergent ways? What if I model masking so well they learn it before they learn to accept themselves?

The silver lining, I guess, is that now I know what to look for. If it shows up in them, I’ll see it. I’ll get it. I’ll hold space for it.

But it still feels like a heavy legacy. A rough hand. One I wish I could soften for them.

And then there's the whole question of diagnosis. For me. For them. Do I need a formal label? Would it help me feel valid? Or just trapped in some system I don’t trust?

Would it help them? Or rob them of the chance to define themselves on their own terms?

That’s the part I keep circling back to. The fear of labeling something that still feels so foggy. The weight of deciding whether to keep it private or share it or speak it into reality.

But here’s what amazes me.

I made it this far without a diagnosis. Without support. Without knowing why I felt so different.

And I still built a life. I still became a mom. I still love deeply, think critically, create obsessively.

The masks I made protected me.
But now I get to learn how to take them off.
And that feels like a relief.
That feels exciting.

Maybe this post is the first real step.
Maybe this is me unmasking.

Thanks for being on the ride with me.

If this resonates — if you’ve questioned yourself, your identity, your wiring — I’d love to hear from you. Let’s be less alone in it.

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I never pictured my life this way. I didn’t imagine being a stay-at-home mom with two kids, no income of my own, no five-year plan. Just living from snack time to snack time, nap to nap, repeating the same routines like a low-level assistant to two tiny, chaotic bosses.

Some days it feels like my entire life revolves around feeding my children.
Breakfast. Snack. Lunch. Snack. Snack again. Dinner.
Are we home? Do I have groceries? Do I need to bring food in the car? Is there enough time before dinner? It’s constant.

Then there’s nap time. That sacred, unstable window. I fight to protect it—not just for them, but for me. It’s the one slice of the day where I get to be alone, where I refuse to cook, clean, or do anything that smells like obligation. In that hour and a half (give or take), I try to cram in a workout, a little writing, maybe a hobby or a show. Something that reminds me that I still exist outside of this role. That the version of me before motherhood isn’t entirely gone.

I never wanted this life. Not because I don’t love my kids—I do, fiercely—but because I never wanted to be reduced to the domestic spine of a household. I thought it would be demeaning. That it would silence me.

And it can be. It’s easy to disappear when your work doesn’t come with paychecks or performance reviews. It’s easy to feel irrelevant. But the truth is: it takes a hell of a lot to keep everything running. It’s not glamorous, but it’s a constant juggling act of logistics, timing, emotion, safety, and sanity. I don’t get medals for it, but I know how hard it is to keep all the plates spinning—and how fast it can all fall apart if I don’t.

I used to picture a different kind of mother. One who had a job, came home and enjoyed her kids, traded off cooking and cleaning with her partner. Someone who didn’t lose herself in service to her family.

But then I had kids. And the idea of leaving them in someone else’s care all day—missing their firsts, their weird jokes, the way their brains light up when they figure something out—it broke something in me. I didn’t want to just visit their lives in the evenings. I wanted to live them.

And honestly? Being here has paid off.

My daughter is three and a half. She used to be cautious and reserved, the kid who watched before joining in. But now she’s blossoming into herself in ways I never expected. The other day at the park, she climbed up a play structure, looked down, and decided she wanted to jump. No prompting. No coaching. Just her own idea.

And then I heard her whispering to herself:
“I’m brave. I can do this. I’m brave. I can do this.”

She repeated it like a mantra, her own personal war cry, until she launched herself into the air. When she landed, she lit up. Her face broke open in a smile and she looked straight at me—I was already cheering. She did it again. And again. Her little voice grew louder each time, her courage more infectious. She even started encouraging the older kids around her to jump too. Some parents didn’t love that. But I did.

Another day, a boy her age told her, “I’m strong,” like a challenge.
She didn’t flinch.
“I’m strong too,” she said back. Calm. Confident. Certain.

She dances in public with abandon. She sings out loud. She’s not arrogant—she’s free. And I know not every kid is like this. I wasn’t. But she is. And I believe I had something to do with that. I believe this presence, this daily, messy, committed presence—I believe it matters.

No, I’m not climbing a corporate ladder. I don’t wear blazers or collect accolades. But I’ve grown more comfortable in my skin than I ever was before. I move my body to be strong, not to shrink. I don’t party late into the night—but I’m there when they wake up, and I’m there when they fall asleep. And they are seen, heard, and loved all day in between.

Do I still want more? Yes. I want something of my own. I want to build a life that includes professional pride, creative fulfillment, and a version of me that exists beyond motherhood. I haven’t figured that part out yet. But I will.

Because I’m still here. I still matter. I haven’t disappeared.

And right now, even if this wasn’t the life I planned—it might be the one I needed. And it might be exactly what they needed, too.

If you’re in your own identity crisis, wondering how the hell you ended up where you are—give yourself grace. This moment isn’t forever. You’re still becoming. So are they.

This time is not a detour. It’s part of the damn road.

Feel free to share your story or just say hi below.
It means a lot to know who’s reading.

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I was inspired by Mother’s Day recently and by my own complicated relationship with my mom. I’ve spent years wondering what it would be like to have a different kind of connection with her. One where I could speak directly, instead of tiptoeing around the land mines we’ve both learned to avoid.

This isn’t a letter I plan to send. But it’s one I needed to write. A way to finally put words to the love, pain, silence, and resentment I’ve carried for decades.

Dear Mom,

I’ve been thinking about Mother’s Day. And about you. And about how complicated our relationship really is.

I wonder what it would be like if we could speak plainly. If we didn’t have to dance around the land mines we’ve both planted, protect old wounds, or hide behind the stories we’ve told other people and ourselves. So this is me, trying. Saying the things I’ve never really known how to say out loud.

Because I do love you. And I appreciate all you’ve done for me. I wouldn’t be who I am without you. If anything I say here makes you upset or defensive, I hope you’ll come back to that. At the core of everything I’m about to say is love. It has always been.

You married at 17. Had me at 18. From the beginning, you made it clear I wasn’t an accident. You wanted me. You felt ready to be a mom. You had a vision of what you wanted your life to look like, and I was a part of it. That truth gave me comfort. It mattered deeply to know I was chosen.

You tried to build that dream with my dad, but he wasn’t ready to grow up the way you were. He stayed out partying. He was with other women. He cheated. I can only imagine how painful that must have been. Believing you had everything you wanted, only to watch it fall apart. You even tried to make it work after that. But when he moved the other woman into the house, you didn’t have a choice. You left. I’m proud of you for that. Even if it was reluctant, it was brave.

You moved us back home. Probably feeling like you’d failed somehow. But you didn’t. You made a choice—for us. I know that. You worked a lot in those years. I spent a lot of time with my grandma, who was so loving. She was warm and kind, and gave me a sense of safety and connection. Occasionally, you brought me to work with you, which made me feel special. We didn’t have a lot, but I felt like I had everything I needed. You made me feel like a priority. You made me feel loved. We were best friends.

And then, when I was six, you started dating him.

You liked that he had friends and knew how to have fun. I think a part of you felt like you were finally getting to experience your twenties. You had stepped into adulthood so fast, and he made you feel light, carefree, maybe even wanted in a way you hadn’t felt in years. He was older. He had a job. He seemed dependable. You thought he was both fun and stable.

He wasn’t.

At first, his drinking seemed like a normal part of the party. Then it turned. He became mean. Loud. Threatening. And you started leaning on me. You cried on my lap while he screamed outside of my door. You used my room as a shield, a line he wouldn’t cross. I became your safety. Your place to retreat. I wore that as a badge of honor.

But that safety came at a cost. And it’s a cost I paid quietly, every day.

I silenced myself for years. I carried your secrets like they were mine. I was afraid that if I said anything—if I told a teacher, a friend, anyone—I’d be taken from you. That I’d be forced to live with my dad. And I worried that if I left, even for a night, you might not survive without my protection.

I believed I was the only thing standing between you and something unthinkable. I was terrified of what might happen if I wasn’t there.

So I didn’t speak up. I didn’t tell friends. I didn’t tell family. I kept your secrets. And I kept your pain. I didn’t have a name for that then, but now I do. It was emotional suffocation. And it was too much weight for a child to carry.

I took it all on. I yelled back at him. I tried to protect you however I could. I would have done anything to keep you safe.

But I was just a kid.

Looking back now, I wish you hadn’t let me carry that weight. I know you thought you were doing what was best. But I wish you had left. I wish you had found a way out sooner. I don’t understand why you didn’t. Were you still hopeful? Were you scared?

You told me it would get better, that he would change. You expected him to change when we moved towns. Then when you got married. Then when he became a father to his own child. But it didn’t get better. It got worse. And I watched you shift the boundary every time he crossed a line.

That’s when I learned something I’ve never unlearned: people don’t change for the better. Even if they say they want to. Even if you want them to. At best, they stay the same. At worst, they get worse. That lesson landed early, and I carry it still.

Eventually, you did leave him. I always told myself it was because he pushed me. One time. Nothing that left a bruise. I don’t even remember what happened before it, just that it happened, and it felt like maybe that was finally your line.

Then I found out—recently—that you were already in a new relationship when you left him. That maybe it wasn’t my safety that drove the decision. Maybe it was that someone else made you feel cared for. And I don’t blame you for that. You deserved someone safe. You still do.

But that was also when you pulled away from me.

You stopped looking at me like your daughter. I became your co-parent, your partner in raising my sister. I was a teenager, but you expected more of me than I could give. You stopped being light with me. Your laughs were saved for whispered phone calls with your new mystery man, the one I wasn’t supposed to know about. You started taking your anger out on me instead.

All the years I spent protecting you were invisible now. All the times I had silenced myself to keep us safe were forgotten.

And then came the moment I couldn’t forget.

We were arguing in the kitchen. That wasn’t new. You had called me a slut before. You had mocked me. You had yelled at me. Those had all become normal. But then you slapped me.

Everything inside me dropped.

It wasn’t just the slap itself—it was the betrayal that came with it. After all those years of standing up to him for you. After fearing he’d hit me. After protecting you with everything I had. He never hit me.

But you did.

And that realization—that you crossed that line, not him—began to unravel something in me. It didn’t fully break me in that moment, but it started something I couldn’t stop. A slow-growing truth that everything I’d endured as a child, you could have prevented. And you didn’t.

That was the beginning of the end.

I started focusing on my escape. I wanted to get as far away as possible, start over. I got into college. I stayed in the dorms as much as I could. I didn’t come home unless the building literally shut down. You didn’t call. I didn’t either. The relationship that had once meant everything to me faded into polite distance.

And still, I miss you.

I wish I had the urge to call you when something good happened or I needed extra support. I wish I had the kind of relationship where I could send you a picture of the kids, or text you before a flight, or just feel that tiny comfort of someone else knowing where I am in the world.

But I don’t. And I never have.

I don’t know how to get that kind of connection. I don’t know if it’s possible without real conversations. The kind that take accountability. The kind that require honesty. I don’t know if you’re able to do that.

I wish you knew how much this still weighs on me. Our relationship doesn’t just live in the past—it shows up in my body now. In my dreams. In the tightness in my chest when your name appears on my phone.

I have nightmares. I wake up crying, panicked, out of breath. You’re never physically hurting me in them. It’s always something quieter, more helpless. You’re gaslighting me, cornering me, making me feel small. Like nothing I say will ever be right. Like I’ll never be able to explain myself clearly enough to be heard. It’s never my dad in those dreams. It’s never my stepdad. It’s always you.

And selfishly, I wish we could mend things. Because I don’t like feeling this way. I don’t like the anxiety that floods me when I think about you. When you text me out of the blue, I immediately brace for what’s behind it. What’s unsaid. What I’m supposed to decipher.

I go into hyper-analytical mode. My heart races. I try to read between the lines because I’ve never felt safe taking your words at face value. I always feel like there’s a trap I don’t see yet. That no matter what I say or do, it’ll be the wrong thing. That I’ll let you down again.

It feels like I can never make you happy. Whether I succeed or fail, there’s always some invisible rule I’ve broken. Some unspoken expectation I didn’t meet.

And the worst part is—I’ve carried that pattern into my other relationships. That same fear. That same hyper-vigilance. I never fully believe people when they tell me what they feel. I live in constant tension, trying to guess what people aren’t saying out loud. It’s exhausting.

I do hope you’re happy now. You seem to be living the life you always dreamed of—Mexico, the sun, no job, a new husband. I hope you’ve found peace. I hope you’ve found yourself. I hope you feel safe in your skin now.

But I also don’t know if I’ll ever really know. Because you’ve always been so good at wearing masks. You wore one for years. You taught me how to wear one too. Smile. Pretend. Keep it perfect on the outside, even if everything is falling apart inside.

So I hope it’s real, your happiness. I hope it’s not just the best version of the story you’re willing to tell. And if it’s not—if it’s still heavy, or fractured, or unhealed—I want you to know I’m still here.

I’m always here for your truth.

I want you to know this: I don’t judge you. I understand that you gave up your twenties. You didn’t get to go to bars, get drunk, be carefree, or reckless. You chose family. You chose responsibility. You skipped the chaos most people get to learn from.

I know you were doing your best. I know you were trying to survive.

You made me into someone strong. Some of that strength came from love. Some of it came from survival. From learning how to harden. From becoming fierce because I had to be.

Some of who I am is because of you. But some of it—maybe the most powerful parts—are in spite of you.

And I think that matters. Because it means I didn’t just inherit strength. I built it. I turned pain into drive. I turned silence into truth. And I’m proud of who I’ve become.

And I love you.

If you ever want to really talk—not pretend, not surface-level, but really talk—I’m here. I don’t know what’s possible for us now. But I know I would show up for that conversation.

Love,
Your daughter

I’m in the best shape of my life.
And I’ve never felt more afraid to say it out loud.

After having two kids in two years, I didn’t think it was possible. Everywhere I looked told me to just embrace my postpartum body. That it’s done so much. That it’s strong. That it’s unrealistic to expect your pre-pregnancy body back.

And I tried. I really did. I bought new clothes. Got a haircut. Tried to settle into this “new me.” But it didn’t work. I didn’t feel good in my skin. It wasn’t just about how I looked—it was about identity. It was hard to feel sexy, to feel like myself, to feel like anything other than just MOM.

Everything Told Me Not to Want This

I was 15 pounds over my pre-pregnancy weight. It felt impossible to lose that much without becoming a gym rat—and I’m a mom of two toddlers. I don’t have time for two-hour workouts or tracking every carb.

And everything I came across made it seem like not only was it impossible, but that I shouldn’t want it in the first place.

Inside my own head it sounded like this:
You should love your body. You should embrace it. Wanting to change it dishonors what it’s done.
You shouldn’t talk about weight in front of your kids—you’ll give them a complex.
But you should also model being physically active. Quietly. Carefully. Without making it about appearance.
You shouldn’t feel not sexy—your husband says he still loves your body.
This is what aging looks like. This is motherhood. Why is that not enough?
Even if you try, it probably won’t work. You’re not young anymore. You haven’t been in shape in years. You’ll just gain it back.
So why bother?

I didn’t know how to push back against all of that. But I didn’t want to give up. I wanted to feel strong. I wanted to feel like me again.
Not just mom. Not just “aging gracefully.” Me.

No Roadmap. No Community. No Models.

I didn’t know where to start. All I could find were fitness influencers who lived in the gym, or moms who weren’t trying at all. I didn’t see me in anyone. So I had to figure it out on my own.

I used ChatGPT to help me calculate how many calories I actually needed, what a reasonable deficit would look like, and how to balance my macros. I had never paid attention to protein in my life. I had no idea how important it was—especially for strength and recovery. And no, this wasn’t some carb-hating plan. It was about balance.

I realized my protein and carb intake should be roughly equal if I wanted to cut weight and gain muscle. That was way off from how I had been eating. But seeing meals broken down into carbs, protein, and fat helped me understand where to shift—not cut.

I tracked everything using MyFitnessPal. I paid for the premium version to get full macro breakdowns and it helped me change my habits in a real, sustainable way.

For workouts, I used NoomVibe (free, not sponsored) and aimed for around 30 minutes a day, five days a week. I didn’t do two-a-days. I didn’t run. I hate cardio. And most programs online made it sound like running was non-negotiable if you wanted to lose weight.

No thanks. I focused on strength. I used 5, 8, and 10 pound weights—nothing fancy—and did a mix of strength and low-impact cardio. Strength workouts got my heart rate up anyway. I cannot stress enough how much I do not like cardio.

It Had to Be Sustainable

I didn’t work out on holidays. I didn’t panic about days I ate out. I reminded myself this wasn’t a crash diet. It was a lifestyle shift.

Some days I didn’t track at all. I knew I was over and didn’t want to look at the numbers. That’s fine. Because most of the time, I was on track. Most of the time, I was consistent. That was what mattered.

The weight didn’t come off immediately. I didn’t expect it to. But I did track it every day, first thing in the morning after using the bathroom. Because consistency matters when you’re weighing yourself. Otherwise, the comparison isn’t even real.

Sometimes the number didn’t change. Sometimes it went up. That sucked. But I reminded myself—muscle weighs more than fat. And that number isn’t the full story anyway.

I also took body measurements every couple weeks. They didn’t always change either. But over time, they did. I went down a couple pant sizes and bra sizes. That wasn’t the goal—but it was nice.

Now I wear crop tops and bikinis again. I didn’t think that would happen in this lifetime. But here I am.

I Did It. Quietly.

Six months in, I’m 18 pounds down. I’m not trying to lose more. I’m maintaining. Still gaining strength. I’m in better shape than I was as a teenager, and I was a competitive cheerleader—so that’s saying something.

When I told a friend, her first reaction was:
That’s not sustainable.
That’s not healthy.

When I told my husband, he was supportive—but careful. Like even he wasn’t sure what he was allowed to say.

So I shut up about it.

I didn’t have gym friends. I didn’t have a place to post about it without looking like I was showing off. I didn’t want to make other moms feel bad. I didn’t want to make it a thing.

But you know what? It is a thing. I’m proud. And I deserve to be.

We Say “No Shame”—But Only for Some Bodies

I grew up skinny. That was my identity. And when I wasn’t anymore, I didn’t recognize myself.

But even when I was thin, people made comments. Accused me of being anorexic. Told me I was too skinny. Like that was okay.

We’re told not to shame people for being overweight. Good. But then why is it somehow acceptable to shame people for being in shape? Or for wanting to be?

We’re told that women who lose weight are doing it for the male gaze. That they’re chasing approval. That they’re performing some role for society. Like it’s impossible to believe we might just want to feel good in our own skin.

But you know what? Some people—like me—just want to be thin because that’s what feels good in our bodies. That might be how our bodies are naturally. I’m not doing this for anyone else. I’m doing it for me.

And we need to stop assuming women are doing things they don’t even want to do, just to make other people happy. Maybe, just maybe, we’re allowed to want this.

I’m Still Me. Just Louder.

I didn’t join a program. I didn’t sell shakes. I didn’t make fitness my personality.

I just wanted to feel strong again. Sexy again. Like myself again.

Yes, my body is different now. And it always will be. But I’m stronger. Healthier. More confident.

And I’m done being quiet about it.

I don’t want to keep apologizing for being me and wanting what I want.
Yes, I am grateful for everything I am and have—but that doesn’t mean I can’t want more or better.
I’m worthy. I’m grateful.
And I’m a hard fucking worker.

I don’t want to sound the alarm. But it’s getting harder not to.
Because if we wait until it’s undeniable, it’ll already be too late.

This week, the President said we can’t offer due process to every undocumented immigrant because it would take too long.

What the hell?

We're now justifying skipping constitutional rights because they're inconvenient?

Let’s not pretend this is about efficiency. This is about power—about forcibly removing people, even when they’re here legally. Yes, that’s already happened. People with documentation, families, jobs—dragged out of the country because they “looked illegal.” Tattoos. Skin color. Where they were born.

America, the so-called melting pot, is starting to curdle.

Trump was asked if he’s required to uphold the Constitution. His answer?

“I don’t know. I have to respond by saying again, I have brilliant lawyers that work for me.”

That’s not a joke. That’s someone testing the rules out loud.

This Is Bigger Than Politics

Maybe as a woman I feel it more. The instability. The knowledge that our rights were never guaranteed and are already being clawed back. That there are people in power who would rather we be silent, barefoot, and birthing.

So yes—if they can shave heads, shackle limbs, starve and disappear brown people under the guise of immigration, what makes you think they’ll stop there?

Once you give a government the power to decide who’s worthy of rights, the line moves fast.

The Parallels Are Haunting

Do you know why Auschwitz was in Poland?

Because the Nazis didn’t want Germans seeing what they were doing. So they shipped people out. Out of sight. Out of mind.

Sound familiar?
They’re talking about reopening Alcatraz.
They're ramping up deportations to El Salvador—one of the most dangerous places on earth—regardless of whether the person has ever lived there.

They're using Guantánamo.
They're building mass detention sites where people disappear—no rights, no trial, no connection to family.
They’re not meant to return. They’re meant to disappear.

And not just for “criminals.” Many of the people being detained, deported, and terrorized have never committed a crime. Others made mistakes, sure—mistakes that would’ve gotten white citizens probation instead of permanent exile.

Maybe It’s Easier to Look Away

Maybe it’s easier to believe it’s not that bad.
To call it complicated.
To assume someone else will step in.

But this is how it happens. Slowly.
With good people looking away.

I’m not the one they’re targeting, yet.
But the laws are shifting quickly. Rights are already being taken away.
I now see how fragile it all is.

If you think you're safe because you're white, or legal, or quiet—
do you really just want to wait and find out?
Or do you want to do something about it?

Here’s What I Know

People I love are scared. Friends going through the legal immigration process—people with no record, no danger to anyone—are afraid to speak up or be seen. And I live in a liberal area.

If they’re scared here, how do you think it feels in red states?

How does it feel for someone who does have a criminal record—but now has a family, a job, a stable life?
And now they live every day wondering if one traffic stop will take it all away.

ICE has been told to arrest more people. Quicker. Private prisons are growing. Fear is being manufactured in plain sight.

I don’t have all the answers.
But I do know this:

Do not be quiet.

Rest if you need to. Take care of your mind.
But do not disengage.

Call. Protest. Donate. Write. Speak.

The Constitution isn’t being shredded all at once.
It’s being tested for weak spots.

And if we don’t push back, they’ll keep going.

It’s only radical if you haven’t been paying attention.

I’m still trying to figure out what I want to be when I grow up.
Which is awkward, because I’m almost 33.
And a mom.
And technically, I’ve already grown up.

But I didn’t think I’d get here — to full adulthood, to motherhood — and still feel so... undecided.

I did everything I was supposed to do.
I got straight A’s. Went to college. Graduated with a degree in Manufacturing and Supply Chain Management. Got a job in the field I trained for.
I played the game. And I played it well.

But I never felt fulfilled.

Now I’m a stay-at-home mom. And while there’s value in that — and I do believe I’m doing a good job — I still don’t feel as fulfilled as I wish I did.

I told my dad that once and he looked at me like I had two heads.
“But you’re doing great,” he said. “You get to spend all your time with your kids. They’re amazing. So well-behaved…”

Yes. They are amazing.
And I do think being home with them has a lot to do with that.
My three-year-old can read — and no, I’m not exaggerating.

But still.
I never wanted to be a stay-at-home mom.

I’ve always hated the idea of gender roles. Still do.
Being home all day with the kids often feels like walking directly into that trap — unless you fight like hell to hold onto yourself.

I don’t want to just be someone’s mom.
Someone’s wife.
Someone’s maid.
I’m not a homemaker. I’m not a housekeeper.
I’m a person.
I’m me.
I am smart. I have a mind of my own.

I don’t want my purpose to be tied solely to fulfilling other people’s needs.
I don’t want to disappear.

And I’ve seen what can happen when people do.

I’ve seen moms unravel after their kids leave home — searching for meaning, searching for a marriage that’s gone quiet, searching for themselves.
I’ve seen how painful that can be.
Not just for them, but for the kids too.
Because kids notice.
And sometimes they end up carrying guilt — like they were the glue that held everything together. Like they’re abandoning someone who never built a life of their own.

I don’t want that for my kids.
And I don’t want that for me.

So no, I don’t want to stay home forever.
Right now it makes sense. My husband can support us, childcare is insane, and neither of our kids is in school yet.
But I know I want something more.
The question is — what?

I’ve taken all the quizzes.
I’ve made the lists.
I’ve spiraled at 2 a.m. wondering if I’ll ever know what I’m “meant” to do.

Should I go back into supply chain?
I did it for almost a decade. But I never really loved it. It was fine. It was stable. But it was so focused on cost-cutting and negotiation and efficiency — and honestly, it drained me.

I’ve thought about becoming a therapist.
Which was weird to bring up to my actual therapist.
“Hey, I think I could do your job.”
But I’ve been drawn to psychology since I was a kid. And helping people work through their mess does feel meaningful to me.

I’ve also wondered about starting a small business.
A coffee stand. A gym. Something local.
But the startup costs are intimidating, and most businesses fail.
And that risk feels bigger now that I have two tiny humans depending on me.

It just feels like… if you’re 22 and trying to figure out your path, it’s expected. Encouraged, even.
If you’re 32?
It feels like a failure.

Because now, it’s not just about dreaming.
It’s about whether you can justify the time.
Whether you can afford the education.
Whether it’s “smart” to invest in something new when you could just settle for something you know how to do.

What if I spend money on school and hate the field?
What if I open a business and burn out?
What if I don’t like anything?

What if this is as good as it gets?

And maybe the hardest part — how do I balance that drive to become something with the practice of being okay with where I am?

I don’t have answers.
But I’m trying to get honest about the questions.

And honestly?
Sometimes I wonder if previous generations actually did have it all figured out — or if they were just better at faking it.

And if they were faking it… why?

Why did they tell us we needed to know what we wanted to be when we were 18 and picking a major?
Why didn’t they just say, “You’re going to evolve. You’re going to change your mind. You’re going to grow into different versions of yourself.”

Instead, we were told to pick a path. Lock it in. Stick to it.
As if life is a conveyor belt instead of a living thing.

And I get it — some of that probably came from survival. From needing to seem stable. From believing that control equals safety.

But as an adult now, I can see how much of it was just a mask.
So many adults pretending they had it together.
Pretending they had the answers.
Pretending that adulthood meant you stopped questioning and just knew.

It’s exhausting to think about.
And it’s damaging — not just to the kids who grew up feeling weird or broken for not having it all figured out…
but to the adults who had to keep up the lie.

I don’t want to do that.
Not for myself.
Not for my kids.
Not for anyone else watching.

So I’m curious — what got you to where you are?
What risks did you take?
Are you happy?
Are you fulfilled?

And how the hell did you decide?

I have given birth twice.
Once unmedicated.
Once via planned C-section.

Both were hard.
Both were real.
Both taught me things no Instagram post or birthing class could.

Every birth is real birth.
Every choice deserves respect.
I am just here to tell my story, in case it helps someone else the way other stories once helped me.

My First Birth: Unmedicated

One night, three days before my due date, I was lying on the couch while my husband made dinner.
I got up to pee and felt a small gush of fluid on the way to the bathroom.

Was it pee? (Thanks, Kristen Bell, for that fear.)
Or was it my water breaking?

It was not much — just a pinkish trickle — but I knew.
This was it.

I called my midwife. No contractions yet. She told me to come in to have the fluid checked, no rush.
We packed our bags and headed to the hospital.

Tests confirmed it: my water had broken.
They gave me the option to stay or go home and rest, but I would need to return within 12 hours to avoid infection risk.
I chose home. Best decision I could have made.

At 1 a.m., contractions started. Slow and steady, about eight minutes apart.
By 3:30, they ripped me out of sleep.
By 5 a.m., I was dropping to my knees with every wave.

Time to go.

We arrived back at the hospital around 6 a.m.
In perfect you-cannot-make-this-up fashion, the entire hospital staff switched shifts at 7 a.m.
If you can control when you labor — and you can't — avoid shift change.

The new nurse barely glanced at me. First-time mom, just arrived. She assumed I had hours to go.
Meanwhile, I was clinging to my husband’s hand, focused completely on breathing, using nitrous oxide to stay present.

I did not scream.
I did not flail.
I just breathed.
And my body started pushing without my permission, without my brain even catching up.

The nurse finally noticed.
She slammed a red button.
The room flooded with people.
My midwife checked me once and called it: "She is delivering now."

At 8:30 a.m., my daughter was born.

Those final minutes are burned into me.

I had read about the Ring of Fire, that moment when the baby's head crowns and tears seem inevitable.
I was terrified of it. Tear-ified.

I had trained myself to recognize it, to breathe through it instead of panicking.
When it came, I felt it — that burning stretch — and instead of losing control, I trusted my body and eased through it.

And I did not tear.
Not even a little.

All the awkward prep, the dates, the tea, the yoga, the ridiculous perineal massages — it mattered.
I was amazed.

And the feeling — that feeling — when she was coming earthside?
It was psychedelic.

Eyes closed, body surging, I floated through some black, infinite space.
Streaks of light.
Weightlessness.
I thought, This is it. This is the oxytocin flood they talk about. Hold onto this. Do not forget this.

You will not be the same after this. That is the whole point.

For a second, it felt like dying.
For a second, it felt like being reborn.

And then, she was there.
Alive.
Real.
Ours.

I got out of bed within an hour.
I could walk, I could pee, I could feed her.
My body was tired, but it was mine again.
It was everything I had hoped for.

My Second Birth: Planned C-Section

I went into my second pregnancy expecting to do it all again.
Same workouts, same tea, same walks.
Same trust in my body.

At 32 weeks, I found out my son was breech.

I threw everything at it.
Spinning babies exercises. Acupuncture. Chiropractic.
Early mornings with my husband helping me into awkward inversion poses.

Nothing worked.
He was stubborn. He was comfortable.

At 37 weeks, we tried an ECV — two doctors pushing with their full strength to manually flip him.
No medications.
No pain relief.

I refused to watch videos beforehand.
Everyone said they were brutal.
I did not need that fear in my head.

Even while it was happening, I did not look.
My husband later told me you could see the full outline of our son's body shifting under the pressure.
It did not work.

I had to come to terms with it.
I was having a C-section.

I tried to stay positive.
Tried to remind myself that what mattered most was getting him here safely.
But deep down, I grieved.
It was not the birth I wanted.
And it sat heavy in my chest for weeks.

C-Section Day

We woke up calm.
Showered. Brushed our teeth. Packed our bags.
We were ready, or so we thought.

We got to the hospital and waited.
And waited.
Emergency C-sections kept bumping mine back.

We sat for six hours, restless, hungry, trying to stay distracted while anxiety built quietly under the surface.

Finally, they called us back.

The OR was bright.
Stark.
Sterile.
It did not feel familiar like it had during my first birth.
It felt clinical.
I did not feel comfortable in the slightest.
I wanted to go back.

My body started shaking uncontrollably.
Tears streamed down my face before I could even try to stop them.
I was not ready.

I was scared.
Scared of the surgery.
Scared of the risks.
Scared of being cut open.
Scared of not feeling anything or feeling everything.

They let my husband come in early to try to ground me.
I gripped his hand while the kind anesthesiologist cracked jokes, trying to keep the mood light while prepping the spinal block.

Soon, the numbness crept up my body.
And it began.

There was no surge.
No crescendo.
Just there.

They lifted him over the curtain for a second, then carried him to the warmer to check vitals.
A few minutes later, they laid him on my chest.

I smiled for the photos.
I kissed his forehead.
I let myself feel pride, and gratitude, and love.

And underneath it all, there was something hollow.

The surgery continued while I stared at my son's tiny face, willing myself to stay in this moment and not think about what was happening behind the curtain.

Recovery and Aftermath

They wheeled me into the recovery room, my son on my chest, my body a frozen weight beneath me.

I was fully there but I could not move.

I needed help for everything.
Adjusting a pillow.
Scooting an inch to the left.
Emptying the catheter bag.
I could not even lift my son without help yet.

It was a brutal contrast to my first birth — when I was out of bed within an hour, walking, feeding, moving freely.

This time, it belonged to the nurses, the medications, the hospital bed rails.
I was just stuck inside it.

The first night was the worst.

At first, the pain was manageable.
Sore. Tender. Bearable.

Then it climbed.
Slow at first, then sharp.
Until it felt like my insides were ripping apart all over again.

I tried to tough it out.
Tried to breathe through it.
Tried to believe I was stronger.

But it kept climbing.
Hot, searing, dragging pain, even without moving.
I begged for more pain meds, guilt heavy in my chest, but there was no other choice.

When we got home, the recliner in the living room became my world.

I could not get in and out of bed easily, so every night my husband would go to bed, and I would settle into the chair with my son in a bassinet next to me.

Say goodnight.
Sit back.
Try not to move too much.

My scar scared me.
It was numb and bandaged, and I protected it fiercely — always checking, always careful.

I just wanted to walk to the kitchen without worrying about hurting myself.
I just wanted to feel normal again.

Physically, it took months to feel normal.
I needed physical therapy for back pain and core recovery.
But eventually, the numbness disappeared.
The strength returned.
I got back to my pre-pregnancy weight.
And little by little, my body felt like mine again.

Bonding with my son was slower, too.

I loved him — but the lightning bolt never came.
Not right away.

And I beat myself up over it for months.

The best way I can explain the difference is this:

Pregnancy felt like a long, slow climb toward something massive.
My daughter’s birth gave me the freefall, the endorphin rush, the breathtaking drop into something bigger than myself.
My son’s birth felt like someone yanked the plug before I could get there.
No crescendo.
No explosion.
Just done.

It was not lesser.
It was just different.
And it was harder to wrap my heart around.

A year and a half later, the scar has faded.
The strength has returned.
The bond with my son has deepened and grown into something strong and solid.

I am proud of both births.
I am proud of both versions of myself — the one who pushed through the fire, and the one who let herself be carried when she could not stand on her own.

Every kind of birth is a battle.
Every kind leaves its mark.

If you are in it — no matter how you get there — you are stronger than you know.

And if nobody else has told you yet:
I believe in you.

You have got this.

If you made it this far, thanks for walking through it with me. If you are in the thick of it yourself, you are not alone.

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I didn’t stop caring after the election — I just got too pissed to stay paralyzed.

At first, I felt small. Unseen. Betrayed.
It was like my whole community had done me wrong — until I realized:
It wasn’t my community at all.
It was the fucking media.
(And not the "media" certain people like to blame everything on — it was the actual fucking RNC.)

Anyway. I digress.

Instead of staying trapped in doomscrolling — getting mad at the DNC for not doing enough, not fighting smart enough — I realized sitting in my anger wasn’t productive.
I didn’t want to drown in helplessness.
I wanted to actually do something tangible.

But I had no idea where to start.
None of my friends seemed to be doing anything that I could see.

Should I run for office?
Start a TikTok?
Knock on doors?
Scream on a street corner?

(Shoutout to the versions of me that considered all of it.)

Here’s what I did do:

• I joined my local Indivisible group.

• I subscribed to Chop Wood, Carry Water.

• I found communities that weren’t just mad — they were moving.

• I went to protests (even when they felt a little like echo chambers — because showing up still matters).

And I started writing postcards.
Anywhere and everywhere I could.

To inform voters about MediCal, school board elections, special elections.
To Georgia, to Florida, to California, to New York.
Over 200 handwritten postcards for the Wisconsin Supreme Court race — and we fucking won.
(Hell yeah, Susan Crawford.)

It’s not huge. It’s not heroic. It’s not polished.

But it’s mine.
And it matters.

I’m still finding my power.
Still reclaiming it.
Still figuring it out one tiny, stubborn act at a time.

If you haven’t found your community yet, feel free to start here:

• Chop Wood, Carry Water

• Indivisible

• Postcards to Voters

Or maybe you’re finding a piece of it right now.
Here.
With me.
With the people stubborn enough to still care.

You already belong somewhere — even if you haven’t met your people yet.

Through all the fucking chaos.
We’ve got this.

You don’t have to change the whole world. You just have to keep refusing to disappear.

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I’m tired.
No — I’m exhausted.
Like, my brain is soup and my body is collapsing in slow motion kind of tired.

My daughter has had a double ear infection and bronchitis for a week now. She’s miserable. And I feel terrible for her — I do. But also? This is breaking me.

She’s been up every night, screaming, kicking, crying, raging at the world for three hours straight.

And as a parent, we’re supposed to stay calm. Offer hugs. Talk about deep breathing. Gently regulate.

You know — gentle parenting through a full-on psychological warzone.

But how the hell are you supposed to stay calm when you’re running on 4 hours of sleep and you’re dragged out of bed by screaming… only to be headbutted, kicked, and screamed at?

Meanwhile, my 1.5-year-old son is in the room next door, listening to what probably sounds like a horror movie. I wonder how it’s going to haunt him later. I wonder how it’s going to shape her later — even though we are trying everything: boundaries, comfort, space, calm voices, consequences.

And then I think about my mom.
How she might’ve handled me like this.
Probably would’ve ignored me. Let me watch TV.

This was before every parenting expert online told you that screen time is evil, kids need 7 p.m. bedtimes, and 100% consistency or else they’ll never be secure human beings.

There are a thousand wrong ways to parent today.
It’s exhausting.

I hope all this effort means something. I hope they turn out alright.
I hope I do too.

Last night, after 3 hours of screaming, I caved.
I slept on her floor. My body still hurts.

And this morning? I bought melatonin.

Out of pure, desperate fantasy. I imagined giving it to her and everyone getting a full night of sleep and waking up to a world that made sense again.

I probably won’t use it. We’ve said we wouldn’t.

But in that pharmacy aisle, I saw the possibility.
And maybe that’s what drives every impulse buy — the dream that this one thing will make it better.

Capitalism has really done a number on us, hasn’t it?

Not just ads. The whole damn system.

Here’s an upper, here’s a downer. You anxious? Try this.
You sad? Buy that.
Want to be thinner, stronger, better? There’s a product for that.

I hadn’t really thought about how much we’ve been tricked — how often I look for solutions outside of myself.

But the truth is: I need to keep working on me.
Not fixing me. Just staying with me.
And trusting that this season will pass.

We’ll get through this.
My daughter will get through this.
My family will get through this.

Probably just in time for the next crisis.
But I guess that’s life, right?

Just keep going. Exhausted, grateful, and slightly unhinged.

If you relate to this, I’m sorry.
I hope you’re out there getting sleep.
Please tell me it gets better.

If you’re into emotional chaos, tired honesty, and figuring life out in real time — you can subscribe below to get future posts.

I don’t know exactly what this space will become, but I know I need it.

I’ve spent years softening my voice — to be liked, to be easy, to not upset anyone. I’ve spent months trying to hold my gratitude louder than my exhaustion. And I’ve spent too many days wondering if it’s okay to love my life and still want something more.

This is where I stop editing that down.

This space is for:

– Honest motherhood without the “isn’t this a blessing?” filter.

– Body transformation without the self-loathing.

– Owning my wins — a new house, a reading toddler, a marriage I fight for — without pretending it’s all effortless.

– Being emotional, sarcastic, political, a little vain, a little wild, and completely real.

If you’re tired of pretending you’re fine, tired of shrinking your joy or your rage, you’re probably in the right place.

I’m not here for followers or brand deals.

I’m here to feel more like myself — and to give others permission to do the same.

So welcome. Come half wild. Come fully real. Come exactly as you are.