I was barely through my first vinyasa of the morning when I heard footsteps on the stairs. Still dark. Still in the 5 o’clock hour. Still in my precious alone time that I sacrifice sleep for and wake up early to get. And, now, one of my children was intruding.

Instead of joining me in yoga poses or playing with his toys, he sat right at my feet and insisted on hugging my legs as I moved from warrior 2 to triangle. He demanded breakfast and to do his yoga, which is really just AI-generated yoga poses of his favorite cartoon characters slapped together and posted to YouTube. Soon, his sister was awake, standing at the edge of my yoga mat.

Although they let me finish my yoga routine until the end of savasana, I was quickly answering their demands. They were more vocal about doing their yoga, which brought my first maternal dilemma of the day. This would mean TV time for them, which we try to avoid until after they have done all of their morning routine tasks (breakfast, get dressed, brush teeth, etc). I also don’t like to reward early wakings. However, it’s yoga, which is a good mental and physical activity. My mind barely adjusted to being awake, and I was already in a deep battle of mom guilt and questioning my integrity as a mother.

My daughter found a yoga video acting out one of her favorite movies, “Tangled.” She demanded that I do it with her, but my son whined for me to sit on the couch with him. I hate when I have to choose between my children like this, and again I am challenging my mothering capabilities. I sat on the yoga mat with my daughter and pulled my son onto my lap, thinking maybe he would do some of the poses with me for a bit. He didn’t, and after about five minutes, my daughter decided it was time for breakfast. I am relieved for a second because it was just a few minutes of TV time, and surely that can’t make me a terrible mother, right? Right?

However, as soon as the TV goes off, my son was gripping for yoga, despite refusing to do it with me or his sister earlier. I told him that we are done and it’s time to move on. He continued to cry, throwing his body to the floor with the drama of a 1920s actress and flailing his arms and legs. Trying to be the even-keeled parent, I calmly gave him the choice of racing me upstairs or carrying me. He ignored me and continued to scream. It is not yet 6 a.m.

Trying to teach my nearly three-year-old son that his behavior was unacceptable, I walked away. This led to more bellyaching. I fought the urge to react to him and continue to ignore his pleas to pick him up as I prepared breakfast for him, his sister, and the dog. My husband woke up and didn’t have the same restraint. I cringed at his lecturing, but tried to give him the benefit of the doubt. Nobody likes to wake up to a screaming toddler.

My son cried and screamed so hard that he was nearly choking himself. I was again caught up in an internal argument about what a “good mother” would do. He eventually whimpered for me to hold his hand as he walked up the stairs. I resigned. It was still an inappropriate way of communicating his needs, but better. Once upstairs, I held him for several minutes to calm down his body.

We moved through the rest of the morning as normal. There was some pleading to clean their plates and put them in the sink, despite the fact that this is a ritual we do every day, at least twice a day. My daughter, who can very much dress herself, doesn’t want to and would rather pretend to be a baby. She teased me to make funny faces, which I did. When it’s time for me to eat breakfast and get dressed, both of them asked me to sit on the floor with them as they colored. I obliged, mostly out of guilt. I have a small private practice outside of my normal job, which means I am seeing clients in the evening, and that eats into my time with my children. Tonight, I won’t be there when they come home from school and won’t be able to put them to bed. Instead, I have an hour squeezed between clients when I can get them fed and bathed. Again, I worried about being a terrible mother, so I gave them more attention now as a way to make up for it, or really to make myself feel slightly less guilty.

My daughter put on a shirt that her grandmother gave her this past weekend. My son moaned, thinking it is his. There is nothing worse in my children’s world than when their sibling gets something that belongs to them. His confusion made sense because they have matching shirts. I tried to calmly explain to him that it is not his shirt by grabbing his out of the laundry. He was insistent that he wear that shirt today, despite the fact that he wore it two days previously, and it has dirt stains from outdoor play. He would not budge on this position. I offered him another shirt, with the same cartoon characters on it, and he refused. I reasoned with him that he could hold the shirt and wear the clean one I picked out. His anger intensified. Again, his body was convulsing on the ground. I had to pin him to the floor to change his pull-up and pants. Another 10-minute meltdown ensued, and I eventually convinced him to wear the clean shirt. Dressed, he jumped up happily. I turned to my daughter and said it’s time to brush her hair. No, she yelled, not yet. I knew that I shouldn’t reward that attitude, but I was hungry, and I should have been in the shower 20 minutes ago. When I did comb her hair, she accosted me as I untangled her knotted hair.

When it was finally time for their dad to take them to school, about two hours after they woke up, my daughter broke down into full sobs. She begged me to take her to school, or at least pick her up. I can’t because of my private practice schedule. Guilt darkened me. They aren’t getting enough time with me, I worry. I am hurting them by prioritizing my private practice. I have to make it up to them this weekend. I pick her up and offer to put her in the car, which sets my son off. He wanted mama, too. I picked both of them up; even though at 2 and 4 they are too big together to fit in my arms, I carried them to the garage. I kissed their foreheads and told them I love them.

All this happens before 8 a.m. Now, I am expected to have a full day of work followed by two private practice sessions. Between meeting demands and managing meltdowns, I’ve also added stuff to the grocery list, made mental notes of things I needed to do at work, and reminded my husband of the tasks I need him to do today. My mental and emotional energy is already drained, and my nervous system is shutting down, which is kind of a bummer since my whole job is to hold other people’s hard emotions. For a second, I consider going back to bed, or at least going to get a fancy coffee, but I do neither. Instead, I move forward.

While this morning was a bit more chaotic than most, it’s within normal expectations. In the first three hours of the day, I am a cook, a waitress, a stylist, a referee, a calming presence, an enforcer, a tickle machine, a teacher, a cheerleader, a comedian, an organizer, a planner, a toy, and a mom. All of that for just one nervous system.

Any mother who reads this post will look at the morning I had and nod along because she too has done it. That doesn’t sit right with me. This shouldn’t be the expectation or the norm, and yet for so many mothers, it is.

Some say this phase will pass, and I do believe that, and yet what do I do in the meantime? Grin and bear it? I would rather not. I do wish I had an answer to this mental and emotional load that mothers carry, not just for myself but for the many women I work with who also feel depleted and like shells of themselves.

All I can do, for now at least, is take care of myself. Listen to calm music, stretch my body, drink tea, and hope tomorrow will be better. Also, talk about it. We don’t have to sit in silence about this. We can share how hard it is until it’s finally understood be everyone.

“My life has felt enormous, but what do I have to show for it?” - The Correspondent: A Novel by Virginia Evans

One of the instructors on the campus where I work recently invited me to speak to some students about my Peace Corps experience. Because I barely remember that I was a Peace Corps volunteer anymore, I jumped at the chance to talk about a very informative part of my life.

When I returned home from the Peace Corps and went on to work at the agency’s recruitment office in Chicago, I often shared my experiences. Whether it was part of a recruiting event or creating content for the Peace Corps online presence, I had regular opportunities to reflect and process the good and bad of my service. I loved talking about the Peace Corps, and even got the chance to go back to my alma mater, South Dakota State University, because I loved being a Peace Corps volunteer.

My journey as a volunteer was more elongated and came with specific heartbreaks: my application was initially rejected and it took two years to get an invitation; one of my fellow volunteers died within days of us arriving to our sites; I was evacuated for security concerns and had to leave my service 20 months too early and had to reapply; and I served another 26 months with so many ups and downs that I have now forgotten about. I went to the Peace Corps when I was 25, and officially ended my service at age 29. When most people were settling into careers, marriages, and parenthood, I was taking bucket baths and waking up to baaing sheep. It was hard and beautiful and scary and exciting and, as cliché as it is to say, frankly, life-changing. Then, when I came home, I got a job and friends because of my link to the agency. It defined so much of who I am, and I became a better version of myself because of the Peace Corps. It truly is one of my proudest accomplishments.

Once, while living in Chicago, I went to a party that my dear friend Katie was having with her roommate. The first time I met Katie, at our staging for the Peace Corps, I was determined to make her my friend, and we still are dear friends to this day. At the party, people were asking how I knew Katie, and I said that we served in the Peace Corps. These friends of hers, mostly people she played volleyball or went to college with, were shocked. “I didn’t know Katie was in the Peace Corps.” It was funny to me because at the time, I don’t think anyone in my circle did not know I was in the Peace Corps. We had been back for a few years at this point, but it was still a major part of how I presented in the world.

Now, though, it’s not.

It’s been 12 years since I ended my service. After I left my job at the Peace Corps recruitment office in 2016, I stopped sharing my experiences as much. It definitely came up in conversations, and I still maintained solid friendships from that time, but slowly it became less and less of my identity. I didn’t have RPCV on my email signature anymore, and when I brought it up in conversation, it wasn’t something most people had too much interest in hearing about. Plus, I moved on with my life. I got married, went to graduate school, earned my counseling license, and, of course, became a mother.

Motherhood has overshadowed most other identities I once held. I barely write anymore. I stopped running due to a persistent pain in my glutes and hamstrings. Sure, I am a therapist, but at times, that just feels like what I do when I am not with my kids. And, I barely feel like a wife or a friend or a daughter. I am just mom.

I know I am not alone in this. Many women feel that motherhood sucks them up, and while some enjoy that, others, like myself, struggle. We were once people with ideas, thoughts, and dreams before, right? Right? It feels so long ago, I can’t quite remember.

Part of why I went to the Peace Corps was sort of in defiance of my life trajectory. In high school and early college, I kind of had anticipated that I would graduate with my bachelor’s degree, get married, and start having kids. It was the path that was laid out for me that most of those around me were on. But the relationships I thought would last didn’t. Then, I set my sights on becoming a celebrated journalist, probably at The New York Times, and then I left reporting. I was a recent college graduate working a good job, but feeling lame and stuck. There had to be more, and if life wasn’t going to give to me, I was going to go find it in the opposite direction of bylines, wedding rings, and baby bottles. Then, after my time in rural African villages, I got to live in cities with skyscrapers, multiple zip codes, and unending energy. It was more than I could have hoped for myself.

Because of all of the adventures, timing, and just life, the big milestones came later than I thought they would as a teenager. I got married at 33 and had my children at 37 and 39. A couple of months before my daughter was born, one of my colleagues at the time and I noted that we were both going to be 38 that year. “The difference between you and me,” she said, “is that you are about to have your first child and mine is about to be 18.” There are tons of women who have babies at my age, including their first, but where I live, it doesn’t seem to be as common. This often makes me feel a bit lonely, as those who are my age have older children with different schedules and challenges, and women with kids my age tend to be younger. While there is nothing wrong with that in theory, I would just like to connect with more women my age with children of my age in my community. I haven’t found that yet.

Still, I am so unbelievably thankful for the life I got to experience before children. I love that I was able to see the world and grow into myself in a way that I don’t think I personally would have been able to had I become a mom early. Yes, I am more tired, and maybe I could keep up with my kids better if I were 21 or even 31 instead of 41, but I also believe I am a better mother because of who I was before I had them. Also, I get to instill in them a sense of curiosity to learn and do more than what’s in front of them, even when that is hard, which will set them up to be good people.

Yet, in looking back on that time in the Peace Corps as I prepare for my presentation, I can’t help but be sad for what is gone, and who is gone. It feels like that ambitious and brave woman who left her family and home, not once but twice, is just a memory. The monotony and strain of motherhood have left me feeling like a shell of myself, and I worry that I will never find her again. Even when looking back at my blog from my service, I see so much creativity and reflection in my words. I can’t get myself to write hardly at all these days, even if I want to. I am so tired and anxious, so instead I shut down.

Society’s expectations, as well as my own, force me to say here that I love being a mom, which I do, but I don’t always like it. Actually, a lot of times I don’t like it. This specific week, my husband is gone for 10 days for a national tournament, and due to very unfortunate circumstances that are no one’s fault, my mother, who usually comes to help me during this time, was unable. So, I am with both kids on my own, including one who is still in diapers, who can’t dress himself. The emotions are big for all three of us, and going through our normal routines takes more patience, pleading, and emotional energy. Without an extra set of hands and still working full-time, there is less time for me to decompress and reenergize. It’s hard. We’ve had some really fun times together, the three of us, but also many with tears.

As I have said on this blog before, I want to be more than just a mom, and in this season of life, that feels really hard to do. I’ve heard from so many other women that while parenting always stays hard, you do get the chance to reclaim yourself as your children get more independent and move on. Of course, I don’t like the thought of that either. This morning I texted my husband that it’s been 12 years since I left the Peace Corps, and in another 12 years, we will have a 16-year-old and a 14-year-old. I teared up just thinking about my babies being that old.

When I worked in the Peace Corps recruitment office, I often interviewed former volunteers about their service to highlight on our blog. One such individual, a state senator in Ohio, if I remember correctly, told me: “You know, when I look back on my Peace Corps service, there aren’t a lot of happy memories. But it was the most important thing I ever did.” His sentiment sums up what a lot of volunteers believe: Peace Corps is hard and a sacrifice, but it was everything.

I feel the same for me with the Peace Corps, and motherhood. Yes, I can look back on my service now with rose-colored glasses, but there were some really dark moments. I wanted to quit. I constantly felt like I was failing. I regretted giving up my former life for this one. And yet, I knew in my heart this is what I was meant to do. Again, both for the Peace Corps and motherhood.

My service may be long gone, and I may not talk about it as much, but I will forever be a Returned Peace Corps Volunteer. And when my kids are all grown up, and I have more time for myself, I will still be a mom. Not one of these or others is my singular identity, even if some demand more from me at different times in my life. They are all, and will always be, me.

I am a chronic nail-biter. It’s my most shameful not-so-secret secret.

For years, I’ve been teased and shamed for chewing on my nails. People have suggested foul-tasting polish, regular manicures, trying to stop one nail at a time, or using a rubber band to snap myself when I pull my fingers to my lips. A high school classmate made up a song about me choking a fingernail and dying. A friend remarked how disgusting my gnawed cuticles looked. And, a professor in my graduate program ridiculed anyone “who rides public transportation and bites their nails” in front of our entire class.

Not coincidentally, this habit has made me feel like a failure or that something is massively wrong with me. I have tried numerous times to quit. I’ve done the gross polish and the gel manicures. I’ve even used an app to help me stop, forcing me to pay money to an organization that represents the opposite of my values, any day that I bite my nails. I just can’t quit. I bite my nails when I am anxious, bored, stressed, or feeling some kind of buzzing emotion that I cannot name. Sure, I would love beautiful nails, but mostly, I want to drop the shame.

After I had my first child, I went to see a psychiatric medication provider for the first time in nearly 15 years. The postpartum depression was unbearable alone, and I had a great referral. In my first appointment with Crystal, she took fastidious notes and said, “Girl, you have ADHD.”

The possibility of having ADHD had occurred to me at other times in my life, but no healthcare provider had come outright and said it. I also wasn’t seeking it. ADHD diagnoses, especially in adult women, seem to be on the rise, and it’s become great fodder for social media reels. People tend to take any relevant symptom and declare it as ADHD with a definitive “I can’t do it because.” I did not want to jump on the bandwagon.

However, looking at the symptoms, it was all right there. Once I embraced the diagnosis, small character flaws suddenly made so much sense.

Often losing or breaking things due to simple oversights or mistakes, and then paying to replace them.

Being late, despite giving myself plenty of time to get ready.

Finding myself in a towel, mopping the floor, and not understanding how I got there.

Not being able to sit for movies or long meetings, having to make an excuse to use the bathroom just so I could get up.

Locking myself out of my apartment or forgetting my keys.

Leaving things in odd places.

Asking questions but then not hearing the answer.

Putting a plastic container in the oven, only to find it melted like a candle after a few minutes.

Starting projects, but losing steam after a short while.

Procrastinating any task with more than a few steps because it felt too overwhelming.

Speaking so fast that what came out didn’t make sense, or often missing words when typing or writing.

Interrupting others because a new, flashier thought in my head needed to get out now.

Biting my nails, eating food, scrolling, or drinking alcohol because I needed stimulation or a quick dopamine hit.

These things happened, not because I was flighty or stupid or a mess, as I was led to believe for years, but because my brain works differently. As Edward Hallowell and John Ratey said in their book, ADHD 2.0, my brain is a racecar with bicycle brakes. Having ADHD also better explained my diagnoses of anxiety and depression, as they are often co-occurring with ADHD. The public humiliation and internal shame that comes from ADHD likely led to feeling worse about myself and giving me high levels of anxiety to make sure I did things in a normal way.

What we understand of ADHD and how it presents in girls often means it goes undetected. Also, because the healthcare system has a looong history of not believing women, these symptoms are often treated as character flaws or moral failings. Goodness, I wish I could go back and tell that young girl who was ridiculed by teachers and editors for making simple mistakes or made fun of by her peers for always losing stuff that those things happen not because she is a failure, but because her brain works differently.

For me, it took becoming a mother to understand and accept that I have ADHD. My brain was wired to pay attention to five things at once and be able move from task to task without completing the first one. It was OK that I couldn’t sit for long periods of time, because I rarely had the time to do so. There was a motor driving my brain, and while it had always been there, it was now supercharged and going at full speed alongside the anxiety of taking care of a little human and constantly feeling like I wasn’t living up to the standards of a “good mom.” Yet, that meant I couldn’t rest or do other things that brought me joy. As Crystal said, I had 20 different tabs open, and they all wanted my attention at the same time.

For a while, I was open to trying stimulants, or really anything to make motherhood feel easier. Adderall caused me to wake up at 2 am and run five miles. Ritalin could close some of the tabs, but many were still open. Vyvanse helped for a bit, but then the benefits wore off. I stopped six months ago and tried to find ways to manage my ADHD on my own.

In the last couple of months, after I completed the GeneSight testing and started a new medication, my depression symptoms have greatly decreased. However, that’s made the ADHD symptoms much clearer. More rambling. More misplaced items. More silly mistakes. More anxious energy from a motor running deep inside me. I am back on ADHD medications, but mostly using them when I have long days at work and in my private practice. I had to change to a generic version of Vyvanse because my insurance stopped covering it, which is a rant for another time. It doesn’t work nearly as well, but I can’t afford the $ 350-a-month brand name. It’s sure great of insurance companies to decide what’s best for us, isn’t it?

Even with the medication, the best way to manage my ADHD is with compassion. When I find a random bottle of cleaner in the fridge (which I most certainly do), I try not to beat myself up for it. I take standing breaks during meetings and try to redirect myself when my thoughts have gone to some random topic, like what my middle school crush is doing these days (Google tells me he lives in Texas). “My brain works differently” is a good reminder when I start to feel judgment and shame, because different doesn’t mean bad. There are a lot of wonderful things about my neurodivergent brain, and so I practice celebrating those things, too. I’ve taken the pressure off of myself, and when my ADHD symptoms show up, I accept them and move on.

Maybe it’s because of acceptance, the habit of keeping them painted, or finding other ways to stimulate, but my nails are currently longer than the beds of my fingertips. I can’t say that my nail-biting days are over, but for now, they are bright pink and pretty.

It’s 1 a.m., and I am arguing with my husband.

Except that he is fast asleep next to me, and the argument is happening in my head.

Our three-year-old daughter was up nearly three hours past her bedtime. We had tucked her into bed at her normal time, but she continued to call us into her room for reasons she made up on the spot and play with the toys scattered across the floor. This is not a one-off. She is consistently up 60 or 90 minutes past her bedtime, which usually leads to her waking up as the meanest preschooler you have ever met. She spends the first half-hour of the day barking at me and falling into complete meltdowns over how her strawberries are cut. Half of my energy for the day is consumed trying to calm her down.

In a fit of frustration after the sixth or seventh call into the room, my husband is rigid and sharp with his words. Bedtime. Now.

As a therapist, I am keenly aware of the importance of attachment bonds during childhood. Yelling at a child sends their little nervous systems into a stress response, which can send signals of not feeling safe or shame that they are bad. Obviously, that was not my husband’s intention; his own nervous system was shot after a long day at work and parenting. He just wanted her to go to sleep so she would be rested in the morning, but also so he could check out for the evening.

Still, I was also put into a stress response by the situation. My work as a therapist can be so helpful and informative for parenting; however, it’s also a curse. I am constantly living in anxiety that we are going to screw up our kids with one small interaction at bedtime, and I either go into shutdown mode—do nothing and let them break all kinds of boundaries—or fight or flight.

First, I was imagining fighting with my husband, and even though that meant I was winning, it wasn’t a satisfactory argument. So, I turn to another type of fighting. During that early hour, I got out of bed and did some Googling about toddler sleep patterns.

It was clear to my sleep-deprived brain that the likely culprit for the sleep issues was TV time before bed. Screen time is my number one anxiety about parenting (or tied for the top with how much sugar they consume), and it is a fight amongst everyone in the house about when, how much, and what. There is solid research that too much time in front of a screen can be detrimental to brain development and behavior. And yet, TV is a necessary tool for parenting. It’s how I get dinner cooked or through a long car ride to relatives. Saturday morning TV time gives me interrupted space to do a quick workout or fold the unending piles of laundry. While I rely on it consistently to function, I worry more about turning their brains into mush with too much Paw Patrol than I do about their general safety.

Right then, while everyone in my house is asleep, I decide to put stricter rules on TV. Reduce the daily limit. Restrict it before bed. Monitor what they consume. They will get mad, I know, but they will get over it, I tell myself. There will be barriers, but I will charge through them. My children’s sleep will improve, and then their behavior. I will not be a perfect mother, but a better mother.

Confidently believing I have solved all of our family’s issues, I return to bed. Just as my head hits the pillow, I remember one small thing: my private practice. Shit.

In addition to my day job, I have a small private practice in which I see clients in the evenings. My husband and I use the TV to help calm the kids while I am in another room talking to clients, but to keep them from interrupting my sessions. This side business has not only brought in extra income for us, but also allows me to exercise other therapeutic strengths I don’t often use in my day job. TV has made it easier to balance both, but in this 1 a.m. problem-solving, I can’t rely on it, and that feels kind of scary.

This thought makes me sigh loudly (not loud enough to wake up my husband). I will never win at motherhood. It feels like a constant set of battle in which I am facing my own expectations as a mother, what my kids need, and what I need. I am always losing one of them.

So, I close my eyes and try to sleep. I will figure it out tomorrow, I tell myself.

Hi.

I know, I know. It’s been a while—several months of a while—since I last posted here. Because most of the people reading this are people from my actual life (some of whom are generous enough to pay for a subscription, which genuinely brightens my heart in ways I’m bad at expressing), I felt like I owed you an explanation.

Around my 41st birthday in October, my therapist and I were talking about my intentions for the next year of life. I had plans to run every day of the year (more on that later), or take on some other big challenge that I assumed would change my life. My existence has been one lofty goal after another, always hoping that this one might finally “fix me.” Every birthday, New Year, academic calendar, Monday—another chance to get it right, even though about 75 percent of these plans eventually fall by the wayside. So it made sense that the gears were already grinding about the next endeavor.

“Maybe instead of adding something, you should take away something,” my therapist had the audacity to say.

Rude, but fine.

For the last couple of months, I’d been feeling stressed about writing blog posts—editing them, finding images, all of it. What started as a place to reconnect with writing had turned into a chore. Writing was squeezed in between sessions or into precious weekend nap times, and honestly, the end product didn’t feel worth it anymore. So I stopped.

There were other contributing factors, too. My fatigue has become debilitating. My body can’t resist a nap in almost any free moment. I need all two and a half hours of sleep when my kids nap on the weekends, despite going to bed at 9 p.m. the night before. We even stopped seeing our couples therapist because she could only meet during nap time (well, that—and she sucked). The fatigue sits on me like a heavy blanket, and in the last few months of the year, anything beyond my children and my work just didn’t feel necessary.

Neither does my depression. It has felt very consistent since I had my last child, which is frustrating because my life is in a fairly good place. I’ve had things I’ve worked my entire life for, specifically a beautiful family and an engaging career, but I can’t shake my never-ending low moods. My med provider suggested it was time to do GeneSight testing, which analyzes my genes next to a variety of medications to determine how meds are a better fit based on the med’s properties, how I metabolize meds, and my genes. My provider suggested this about a year ago, but I declined because of the steep price (it is usually not covered by insurance). However, because I’ve never sustained relief with medications and I really want to be more present and active in my life, I decided it was time (my husband, who is adamant on doing anything that might make me feel better, was already on board). The GeneSight testing results were extremely informative and honestly worth the $330. We learned that my body is not processing nearly all of the meds I’ve ever taken, which is why they haven’t helped, and I’ve seen some concerning results regarding my liver on blood draws within the last year. We are now working on me coming off of some pretty strong medications and trying something else. It’s not a gold ticket by any means, but it is leading us in the right direction. I am hoping that soon both the depression and fatigue will feel more manageable.

I am not running right now, which often adds to the depression a bit. Yes, I do get to sleep in later, but running has always been an integral piece of my mental health maintenance, and I tend to slump more without it. My running was strong this fall, and when I feel good, I tend to ramp up too fast, too hard. My body (really, my glutes) couldn’t keep up, and I have consistent pain in my right leg. I am in PT right now, but the pain not only keeps me from running, but it also makes sitting for long periods hard. Which, you know, is how therapy usually works.

Another reason this space has been stale is that my private practice is growing, which means more sessions during lunch breaks and in the evenings, adding to the exhaustion. I do not specifically advertise my practice but rely on referrals (mostly from one source), and it’s in a pretty good place. For me, at this time in my life, a full-time job with a side practice is the right fit. However, I have less leisure time and have to be careful not to overschedule myself, which is my default mode. After a full day at work, a couple of evening sessions, being a jungle gym for my children, and the mental labor of running a household, I don’t have the capacity to write. Lastly, I have a weird relationship with writing, and I get so in my head about it that it’s best not to do it. In the therapy biz, we call that avoidance! I have really missed it, though. I want to write about my late-in-life ADHD diagnosis, my time working in a psychiatric hospital, the constant dreams about my college town, my new skin care routine that is giving me joy, setting boundaries with motherhood, and other realizations I’ve had in midlife. I miss sitting down to a black post and letting the world (or handful of people from various times in my life) in on my most inner thoughts.

Oh, also, have I mentioned that the world is increasingly sad and despairing? It’s hard to write about my “problems” when many are facing literal life and death for existing. Interestingly, totalitarianism doesn’t ignite the creative juices, or at least not for me it doesn’t. And, yet, we must continue on.

So, I write this as a reintroduction. I can’t say I am going back to a scheduled posting or that it will be some tailored thread to get more attention, but I do want to be more present here. If you want to come along, that would be great.

I’ve never been much of a Halloween person.

Sure, I dressed up and got excited about endless amounts of candy as any kid would, (one year I went as a mime, which tells you a bit about what kind of child I was) but by 11 or 12, I was over it and more interested in being at home to pass out treats. In college, my costumes were tame and I often plopped together something at the last minute just so I wasn’t the only one not dressed up. My most successful costume was the Morton Salt Girl; people stopped me on the street to take my picture. As an adult, I liked to walk around the neighborhood amongst the Trick or Treaters and then would settle on the couch with a pumpkin beer and Reese’s Ghosts (my October baby is part chocolate and peanut butter due to how many I consumed during the final weeks of my pregnancy) to watch “It’s The Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown.”

Actually, reflecting on it now, I might have been more of a Halloween person than I thought. I don’t like scary movies and I have never worn a slutty costume in my life (not to shame those that do), but it often seemed like a secondary holiday, compared to Thanksgiving and Christmas, which are my two favorite holidays in that order.

Either way, something changed when I became a mom. With kids, the holiday took on an extra twinkle, and with each year, I lean more into it. Halloween four years ago I was pregnant with my first child, and I remember my husband calling me from our car. “Heather, what in the heck were you listening to?” I giggled. I was so excited thinking about having a little one to dress up and take out the next year that I had been listening to kids Halloween music on full volume. I was about to be a mom. This is how I would now celebrate Halloween.

That first year, my daughter only seven months, we took her to a community festival and she wore Halloween PJs (ones that my mom bought the year before on clearance) to school, but that was the extent of celebrating as she was too little for much else. I did take her out in her stroller that night to walk around the neighborhood, thinking about future October 31sts.

My son was four days old the following Halloween, and my mom had knitted him the sweetest ghost costume to match his sister, who was old enough to Trick or Treat, which we did at the mall because it was simple and in an enclosed environment. The next year, he couldn’t quite walk to join her but he was able to smash a chocolate ghost or two on his own.

This year, they both seem into it, and so am I. I hung up Halloween lights and decorations in September. I got us matching family skeleton pajamas. We have checked out at least half of the library’s stock of Halloween books. I’ve bought pumpkin earrings and have put my hair up in orange and black claw clips. And, we’ve been listening to children’s Halloween music similar to the songs I played in my car four years ago.

My nephew is 11 and this could be his last Halloween Trick or Treating. It seems like not that long ago he was dressing up as an old timey golfer and visiting my friend’s houses, where he was given extra candy to take pictures to make me jealous since I lived far way. Now, he is almost past the age where this holiday feels so special. My kids are moving right into prime Halloween age, and I want to savor this time before it’s gone. I want to create silly and precious memories, the way my parents did for me. For me, that feels like going in on activities, décor, and general aesthetic.

Motherhood has brought changes that have been hard to adapt to, including some that I don’t like. But, feeling more spirited around holidays, I like this part of mothering. It’s almost like a chance for me to tap back into my inner kid and for a bit forget about all the adult worries weighing on me. And, isn’t that such a special gift, to go back to being a kid for the sake of making your kids happy? I think so.

Happy Halloween.

Just as he is happily munching away, my daughter groggily walks out of her room and demands her own breakfast, and then to also sit on my lap. Minutes later, I am juggling a toddler on each leg as they drop bits of cereal and milk on to my pajamas while my coffee is getting cold and my breakfast untouched.

It’s hard not to get impatient in these moments. A thousand things need to be done before we all leave for the day and the clock is getting closer and closer to that time. A part of my brain says, “You need to set better boundaries. They need to learn to eat on their own. You can’t give into their demands like this.”

Another part, looks at our reflection in the sliding glass door and says, “It won’t last forever.”

It won’t last forever, this demand to eat meals inches from my face. They will want their own space. They will eventually want their meals in another room. Another house. Another town. But right now, they want you.

For the last two years, I’ve been trying to survive mothering two littles, and it’s not a good look on me. I am constantly exhausted, often irritated, and sometimes resentful. More than I would care to admit, I am longing for my life pre-children, when I could go on long runs, take three-hour naps, and stay up late binge watching a new docuseries without the fear of when my children will wake up in the morning. Too many times, I’ve had to turn down invitations to social events or check out from what’s happening around me in order to be present for my kids. It has felt like a long slog uphill, in which I lose entire pieces of myself.

My friends with older kids often remind me that it will get better, and easier. “They will be more fun.” I can feel it changing.

My son will be two next week, I am acutely aware of his growing. When I pick him up and carry him across the Target parking lot, I am reminded that it won’t be long before he is too heavy for me to schlep along on my hip. The same feeling hits me when it’s time to wake him up from his nap and he is still sleepy. I cradle his little body against my chess in the the rocking chair, like I used to when he was a nursing infant. These moments are limited, and that hurts my heart.

There are good things about my children becoming more independent, too. My favorite is that they are more interactive with each other, and love to play games just the two of them. Also, this year, they are both old enough to enjoy fall family activities, such as corn mazes, pumpkin decorating, and trick-or-treating.

I am not fond of the phrase, “enjoy it while it lasts,” because it ignores the struggle. That phrase is part of the reason moms feel like they can’t ever complain about the very real struggles of motherhood and that they just have to be happy. It’s dismissive of how crushing, challenging, and at times soul-taking raising young children can be. However, I do understand that the intent behind the message is to remind us that these beautiful little moments are gone within seconds, and we never get it back. Just the other night, my husband could hear me crying while looking through my camera roll at the two tiny babies I used to have. Those humans are still in my house, but their baby-ness is forever gone. That’s both relieving, but oh so sad.

That’s the contradictory of life. We can both want times to go faster but also slow them down. We have to be able to enjoy the moment while also recognizing the hard, and making equal room for both feelings is the best we can do.

You Should Check Out … The Great British Baking Show. OK, so this isn’t a super hot take or an unknown find, but it’s just what I’ve really been enjoying. The contestants are so eager and enduring, and the show’s simple kindness is the perfect antidote to an increasingly uncertain and scary world.

Today is my last day of age 40 as tomorrow the 0 will change to a 1. In some ways, this feels a bit scarier than last year when I left my 30s behind.

I guess with a lot of milestones, I thought being 40 would bring me some clarity. Maybe I would finally have the guts to take my writing to the next level, or I would develop a meditation routine that would stick. Or, I would suddenly lose a bunch of weight and find a body better in shape than in my 20s (ha!). At least, I thought I would find some confidence and clarity in who I am, like it would be easier to be me.

Alas, here I am, another a year older and I don’t feel wiser or more comfortable in my own skin. That kind of makes this last year feel like a waste, like I really have accomplished more this year than having the same anxieties and pants size. At a certain age, birthdays become less exciting and more depressing. Oh, look, another year gone with what to show for it?

It’s hard to find the excitement about getting older, and my mind has been searching for some kind of goal that I can attribute to this next year of life. Maybe I could do a run streak for 365 days, or I could plan a big trip abroad (my husband went to Japan a few years ago and is eager to take me there). Maybe I set a goal of meditating every day. Or, I could pick up a new hobby. Or. Or. Or. My brain is flipping through different things, looking for something that I can do achieve to make myself feel enough.

I did not realize I was doing this until the other day when I was doing an iFit workout on my treadmill at 5 a.m. One of the things I love about iFit, which makes stationary miles less miserable, is that they tape live races and make them into workouts for people at home to follow. Thanks to these workouts, I’ve run the Chicago Marathon, the New York Marathon, and the Sydney Marathon (split into sections, not all at once) along with 5Ks all over the country. On this particular morning, I was running the Boston Marathon course, from Ashland to Framingham. The trainer leading the run was talking about the accomplishment that comes from racing a marathon, specifically one as iconic as the Boston Marathon. “You don’t need an event to feel like enough.”

Boy, have I been doing that my whole life. Peace Corps. Marathons. Vacations. Jobs. Education. Being published. Kids. Marriage. Moving to another state. All of these are things I wanted, but also things I felt like I had to do to prove I was worthy in some way or another. And, it worked, until the initial luster wore off, and I was left feeling like not enough again.

I suppose turning 40 was another thing that I figured would help me feel like enough; “look how far I made it!” And, yet, it didn’t because worth and value are not earned from accomplishment, at the bottom of a pint of ice cream, by who thinks we are hot, or by whatever we purchase next. They are found from acceptance, by simple acknowledgement that we already enough just as is.

Of course, that is simpler to state than to practice, but maybe that’s the theme, not goal, of 41. Practice being as I am, knowing that is enough. It’s not something to tick off and it can’t be found externally. Rather, I just do. It’s worth a shot.

You Should Check Out … Unicorn Girl podcast. There is nothing specifically therapeutic about this recommendation, other than it is utterly fascinating. It’s a winding story that helps pass the time while you are commuting or doing chores. Plus, I am starting to love pretty much anything Charlie Webster produces.

At 11 months postpartum with my first child, I finally started to feel like myself again.

Not only had I found a balance between parenting and work, but I felt more comfortable in my role as a mother. Also, not most important but definitely not least, I had returned to my pre-pregnancy size. I was running again and feeling stronger each week. I had accomplished my goal of fitting back into my all of my clothes, and was even down five pounds.

Just as I was starting to enjoy this post-baby body, I got pregnant again.

Despite that I ran through more of the second pregnancy than the first and that I gained less weight overall (also more of it in my belly), the weight did not come off as simply. With some effort, I was able to get within 10 pounds of where I was when I got pregnant, but those 10 pounds will not budge. I’ve counted calories. I’ve done a variety of workouts. I’ve tried supplements. I’ve cut down on sugar, alcohol, and processed foods. Still, those 10 pounds stay.

I am not happy about it.

Over the last month, I’ve made a concerted effort to shed that stubborn weight with regular diet and exercise. The weight came down a couple of pounds, but I was feeling leaner and stronger. A few weekends ago I raced a 10K, and completely shocked myself with my performance. I honestly didn’t think my two-baby body could run it under an hour, at least not yet, especially since half of the race was uphill, but I easily crossed that threshold. It seemed like I was finally on my way to getting my old body back.

Then, I got sick. I didn’t keep up with my workouts and indulged in more comfort foods. Any progress that I had made was wiped clean. The mom pouch still there, the scale back up.

This fight with my body is not new, and I shouldn’t be surprised that I am this upset or obsessed about where my body is. I’ve been at odds with my body and its size since I was 8. It has never been thin enough, no matter how much I restricted, purged, exercised, and demonized my body. I have never been happy with it, always feeling I’m a bit broken because I do not have the thin frame I idolize. I always assumed that I didn’t have as many suitors as some of my friends because of my weight and that certain successes in life would never come to me because my BMI has always ranged in the “overweight” category.

Logically, I can see how ridiculous this is. I’ve always been a very normal weight and my size is actually below the US average. I’ve run four marathons (two of them in the ultra distance), swam in oceans, hiked in the backwoods, and birthed two babies. My body has done some miraculous things, and still I can’t stop shaming it.

Being in perimenopause, it’s simply harder to lose weight. Not to mention that I had back-to-back pregnancies that my body is still recovering from, and with two young children, a full-time job, and a private practice, I’m not always able to eat the way I want or prioritize working out. If I am not losing the weight, I ration with myself, it’s because I am failing.

My therapist recently asked me if I had to lose the weight. I had never considered that question before. Even though I am still hanging onto extra weight, all of my pre-baby clothes fit, and all of my bloodwork and levels show that I am a very healthy person. Yes, I would like to lose weight, but I don’t need to. I have been dieting in one form or another since I was a child, and I honestly don’t know what it looks like to not be trying to lose weight.

In a recent post, I wondered what in my life have I been hanging on to that is getting in the way of my contentment. Maybe that is this constant obsession to lose weight, to be thinner. It’s an undefined goal that I will likely never truly accomplish because I will continue to move the finish line in hopes that eventually I find some peace with my body. But, can I have that now with my body just as it is? I can, I just have to be willing to find acceptance with my body as it is. I have never had that, and honestly, it seems a bit scary and I am sure where to start.

Yet, I know I have to. I am beyond blessed to be raising a daughter (I love my son more than I thought imaginable, but I always wanted a girl), and I do not want to pass along my body obsessions to her. The world will give her enough reason to hate her body, no matter its size, and I do not want to add to that. However, she sees me checking my reflection in every mirror and window, lifting up my shirt just to make sure I haven’t accidentally gained 15 pounds since the last time I checked an hour ago. She knows that I eat different food from her; maybe not why, but she knows there is a difference. And, even though it makes me feel like a terrible person and even worse mom, I find myself gauging and judging her little frame, thinking how lucky she is to be so small. I don’t want her to spend as much time, energy, money, and tears over her body the way that I have. She doesn’t deserve that, and you know what, neither do I. Not anymore.

This is uncharted territory for me, but I am going to practice acceptance of my body without the need to reform it. This includes deleting my calorie counting app and making food choices based on what feels good. It means moving my body in ways that feel good to me, not what is recommended based on my age or size. It means putting away the scale and not reaching for it in sudden panic to reassure myself. It means resisting the temptation to look in the mirror at my waist. It means appreciating my body for what it has accomplished rather than what numbers are associated with it. It means negating any advertisements, images, or messages that try to tell me I am a failure because my body doesn’t look a certain way. All of this seems simple enough, but I am working against decades of disdain and hatred, so it will take awhile. But, I want freedom from this obsession. I want to move my attention and mental capacity to sweeter pursuits.

You Should Totally Check Out … Maintenance Phase Podcast. This podcast is excellent in debunking myths, rumors, and false beliefs about nutrition, weight loss, wellness, and the food industry. Plus, the hosts are genuinely hilarious and well-informed. Their general take is removing stigma around bodies and food.

There is a hill in my hometown called Snake Hill. It’s tucked between houses and weaves back and forth, leading from a gulch to a residential neighborhood. During my high school cross country days, we would have to run up it a time or two, although it was steeper than anything we would ever see on a race course. Once, my boyfriend and I were riding our bikes in the gulch and decided to go up Snake Hill. He made it to the top, but I couldn’t quite get there on my bike. Feeling as if conquering this incline had something to do with my character, I ditched the bike, went to the bottom of the hill, and ran up it. At the top, I started seeing black spots, likely from dehydration, and we had to call his dad to come get us because I couldn’t ride the rest of the way home.

This is how I have often approached life: go the hard way. You must prove your grit. You must push yourself to the brink. You must complete.

As I write this, I am sitting at home on a weekday. I’ve been battling some kind of bug for the last few days, and decided to stay home. Since being pregnant, I have learned that it is better to get rest and heal rather than push forward and be at half capacity for several days. Plus, it worked OK with my schedule to be sick. How convenient.

Still, as I am at home feeling sluggish and achy, I am bargaining with myself about what chores I could do. The kids’ laundry needs to be folded and sorted. I could meal prep for the next few days. Our therapist has asked us to read a parenting book before our next session, so I should probably start on that. Even writing this post is allowing me to cross something off of my to-do list. It didn’t occur to me that I could just rest and, gulp, relax until my husband said I could leave the chores undone.

Relax. What a concept.

I am built with the “must be productive” gene, and have often struggled with rest. As a kid, my swimming teammates used to make fun of/get irritated with me because I only ever took half the allotted time for rest in between sets. I also earned the “Hardest Worker” award several times. The ability not to relax only worsened when I became a mother. There is an endless list of to-dos when toys are scattered around the house, a milk cup needs to be refilled, and there is immense pressure to constantly provide fun and educational projects for your kids to do.

However, being productive is a detrimental value our society has set. We have learned that if we are not doing something or completing something, our time is wasted. This is harped on us so much that we become paralyzed with guilt and shame that when we are exhausted and burnt out, we just numb ourselves. Well, numb while berating ourselves about what we should be doing. This is not relaxing.

Most of my clients do not know how to relax and rest. They come to me tired and depressed and unmotivated to do homework or go to school. When I ask about relaxation or doing things they enjoy, they tell me there is no time for it. They then will say that they zone out in front of the TV or their phones, often putting off sleep or homework or something else they do care about, because they are so unfilled that numbing is the only way to keep going.

Why is it so hard for us to relax? Or, why do we often think we have to “earn” rest? Many times I will not let myself stop for the day until I’ve completed X,Y, and Z. Who set this ridiculous standard? Well, I did. Which means, I can change it.

I no longer have to run up the hill. Hell, I don’t have to bike up it either. My worth as a human is not defined what by what I’ve accomplished or how many things I’ve checked off my to-do list. Rather, it is defined by my ability to approach life with ease and open arms, which I can only do if I am not drowning in things to do. We live in a world in which it is nearly impossible to complete everything, and so I am done trying. Relaxation will now be a priority. It’s OK if the laundry isn’t done or the house is a mess or if I have to get takeout for dinner. I am still a good mother, good wife, good person. And, I am a happier one if I tend to my needs and get some rest.

With that, I am off to sleep and watch The Great British Bake Off.

You should check out … Buy Yourself the F*ing Lilies. The lilies the author is referring to are the ones at Trader Joe’s, and more than once I’ve looked at those flowers trying to decided if I truly deserve them. Yes. Always, yes. This is a great book about allowing ourselves to indulge in small pleasures for no specific reason.

I spent most of my 20s longing and looking for love.

While there were a few relationships in the early part of the decade, I was mostly single in these years, and definitely not by choice. I searched for a partner in every experience, in every stranger I met. There were a few Almost Loves, but usually one of us was in transition and so it couldn’t be.

The Almosts were often hard to let go of because it seemed as if only circumstance was what separated us. Once, one of The Almosts came back into my life in another city in another state seven years after we initially met during a two-day encounter. I had always thought that if we were ever in the same place again, fate would surely step in. We hung out just once, just him and I in a quiet River North bar. I knew, from social media, that he had a girlfriend, so when he invited me out again, this time in a group, I made up an excuse. I couldn’t see him knowing it wouldn’t lead anywhere. We weren’t supposed to be friends. It was together, or nothing. I never saw him again.

It’s likely that I had a distorted view of The Almosts, because I often fantasized about the love and life they would bring. Sometimes I held on to those dreams to my own detriment.

That was the case with The Poet. He was creative, empathetic, curious. He was interesting, and more, he was interested in me. He often sent me mysterious texts that I couldn’t decode, but then I wouldn’t hear from him for days. When he resurfaced, he acted as if I was all he thought about. My emotions were vulnerable at the time, and it had been so long since a man had thrown any attention my way. I soaked it up, and when he with held it, I wanted it more. We met at a transition, both moving on to other dreams, and yet I couldn’t kick these images of the future I thought we could have together. He would be flaky and unresponsive, and I would vow not to be sucked in again. Then, a short message from him, and back in I went. Over and over.

One time, frustrated by the stringing a long, I wrote out a message to him that was something like, “You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck. You suck.” It was never my intention to send it, I just had to type out the words to release some of my frustration. I could never tell him how crazy he made me feel.

Except for, I did. Instead of hitting the back button, I hit send.

He responded with confusion, and I knew that this my exit. It was time to finally let this back and forth with a man who was never going to care about me the way I wanted him to go. This was my chance to end it for good.

So, I told him as much. He accepted without much fuss. Hours later, he tried to pull me back in with one of those mysterious messages. I told him I was serious and to not contact me again.

I was 30 and had not been in a real relationship for seven years. I had no suitors, no possibilities, nothing. I was so over being the single one in my friend group, but I could no longer be a dopamine hit for someone. The text message I sent The Poet was ridiculous, but I am so glad I sent it. It gave me the chance to finally let go of something that was not good for me.

Six weeks later, I met my husband. It was never almost with him. It just was, practically from the beginning. There were never strings, just adoration. Once we fell in love, all of The Almosts made sense.

As a clinician, I believe that some disclosure can be really helpful for my clients, and this story is one I’ve told several times. Most often, I tell it to a 20-something who is pining after someone who I can tell doesn’t really want to be with them. The Poet didn’t really want to be with me, and when I finally admitted that to myself, I could make room for true love. I can’t tell my clients what to do, but I can give them examples of what happens when you let go of things that aren’t serving you.

When I started to think about sharing this story, I wondered what would be the purpose. Most often, I write to find insight for myself, and I don’t really have a problem with guys leading me on since I’ve been married for seven years. However, that’s not really the lesson from this story or any of The Almosts. Because, even now, when I am throwing myself a little pity party, I think about what would have happened if my life went this way or that way. I am still holding on romanticized views that only dilute my current life and make me unhappy. What would happen if I let these ideals go and see my life for what it is? What if by letting go I made room for something much more grand? What am I holding on to that is holding me back?

I will forever be grateful for those dozens of “You suck” that I sent one day through Whatsapp. They closed a door that desperately needed to be closed so that I could go through one of the most beautiful entryways life has presented me. I imagine there are others that need to be slammed shut in other areas of my life. I just have to have the courage to do so.

You Should Check Out … Amy Poehler’s Good Hang Episode with Andy Samberg. I talk about Andy Samberg so much that once my husband said to me, “You do know that you are married to me?” I love this interview for many reasons, but specifically how he talks about his wife. We should all be so lucky to be with someone who is still fun to hang out with 17 years later.

A couple of months after my 40th birthday, at my annual physical, I told my doctor about some nagging symptoms, things that weren’t life threatening but were disrupting my everyday routine. Constant fatigue. Stubborn weight that won’t budge with diet and exercise. Thinning hair and nails. Low libido. A consistent fog of depression that seems unbothered by the various SSRIs my psych provider had been prescribing. My doctor paused, reaffirmed my age, and noted that it could be hormonal.

“It can’t be perimenopause,” I said. “I just had a baby.”

She agreed, hesitantly, and ordered a sleep study, thinking maybe a sleep disorder was the culprit. It came back normal.

This was December, and I was two months outside of the 12-month postpartum window. My second postpartum was harder that the first, so much that I haven’t been able to finish a post on it because the emotions from that struggle still linger. It could have been that I had, essentially, back-to-back pregnancies and that my body was still replenishing when I found out I was pregnant again a month before my first child turned one. Or, that healing is harder when you have a newborn and a toddler, and I just so happened to change jobs and was starting private practice in that first year. Or, it’s likely that, since all babies and all pregnancies are different, this postpartum was just different, and harder.

I had been waiting to pass that 12-month line, hoping that once I was out of the official postpartum period, things would start to fall into place. Not only would I have more of a routine with the kids, but that stubborn weight would slide off and my energy would return.

In the Spring, a few months after that doctor’s appointment and no real improvements to my physical and mental health, I started to warm up to the idea that it was likely perimenopause. Something else had to be at play here. I didn’t help my health much by over scheduling myself at work in the final months of that semester, sometimes seeing eight or nine clients a day. (Any time I tell this to another clinician, their eyes widen.) By the summer, I was not only burned out but disappointed and frustrated.

It seemed incredibly unfair that I couldn’t have at least a little bit of a reprieve from hormonal attacks between pregnancy, postpartum, and now perimenopause. Plus, everything I’ve read about perimenopause and menopause is that it can last up to 10 years. Blerg.

I have already read a handful of books on perimenopause/menopause. My targeted ads are almost exclusively related to some kind of diet plan, supplement, or drink mix that will help me lose weight, gain energy, improve my mental fog, strengthen my hair and nails, and make me feel 20 again. (Those that are not related to hormones or cortisol detoxes are usually trying to sell me “the one simple trick to fill your caseload with private pay clients,” whatever that means.) I have tried cutting out coffee, sugar, and alcohol. I am doing more strength training and try to get 10,000 steps a day. I also saw a functional medicine doctor who started me on a few supplements and testosterone cream after $300 worth of tests.

However, not much of it seems to work. My mental health has improved with my current medications, an SNRI and a mood stabilizer, but stubborn weight and fatigue continue to plague me. Remedying these symptoms take up so much of my mental space that it is embarrassing. I spend an unhealthy amount of time on the internet researching ways to lose these extra 10 pounds, and I obsess about every workout and meal to watch the scale budge a bit to the negative but then go back up again after a slightly indulgent weekend. When I am not with the kids or working, I am sleeping. Just today I had eight solid hours of sleep but was still so tired when I heard my kids wake up at 6 am, and I ended up taking a two-hour nap when they were napping. Exhaustion hangs onto my shoulders all day, not unlike chronic pain, and there is little room for much else. Anything outside of work, kids, and a workout often gets pushed to the side because the fatigue is just too strong. This leaves me feeling empty and without much joyful extra in my life.

Often, I have noted that there is limited support for women experiencing postpartum mental health issues, and it’s only been in the last decade or so that more attention has been given to the physical and mental impacts of perimenopause/menopause. But, the combination of the two feels like unchartered territory, one with rough waters and tight pants. As more women have delayed having children later on in life, I know I am not the only one experiencing these back-to-back shifts. Still, it feels like there is little legit help. Even when I googled postpartum to perimenopause, most of the top returns were blog posts by some company trying to sell me something that will be the one thing to right my hormones. Honestly, if I had a deeper bank account, I would try all the products I could, looking for a fix. That’s how desperate I am.

There is shame in this hormonal apocalypse. Like it’s my fault for not taking better care of my hormones when I was 22 and drinking tall Bud Lights like water and eating popcorn for meals. Or, that I should have not waited so long to have kids. Or, that I should have had less exposure to toxins, ate more organic foods, started practicing transcendental meditation a decade ago, and have enough income for all the wellness products that are sure to save and add to my life. Oddly, blaming myself doesn’t make it better. Go figure.

So, I am focusing on a whole diet with limited processed foods, sugar, and alcohol with more strength training workouts and at least 7-8 hours of sleep with naps as needed. Then, I am trying to sprinkle in meditation, play, and general relaxation with less social media as I can. These things are overall just good for you, so maybe they well help calm down my jacked up hormones. Or maybe not. I guess I will write about it either way.

You Should Totally Check Out … The New Menopause: Navigating Your Path Through Hormonal Change with Purpose, Power, and Facts. This was my favorite of the books I read about perimenopause/menopause. The author comes at that subject with a general interest in helping women and fill a gap in medical care. I also liked that she wasn’t trying to sell readers on a specific diet or supplement regimen and her information is baked by research.

Before my husband and I had kids, we had a running joke about “our kids.”

Our kids will have refined palates and will eat everything that is put in front of them.

Our kids will never wear character-based clothing.

Our kids will always be quiet and calm in public places.

We understood these were jokes, but even so, parents would often roll their eyes at us with an attitude of “just you wait.”

Going into parenthood, I did have some expectations for myself based on what I thought a good mother was. The organic mother with all wood toys, homemade meals of various nutrients, and plenty of ideas of how to entertain children seemed within reach. I wanted to be contentious and intentional in every decision regarding my children’s care.

With my first child, I wasn’t perfect, but I felt like I was doing OK. However, when I had a second child, surviving was all that mattered. Do I love handing my toddler the phone for some quiet at the restaurant? Do I feel great when I pull out another applesauce pouch for my youngest to eat because I know that’s he won’t touch his dinner? Am I aligning with my motherhood goals when I snap at my children and then see them later snap at each other? No, no, and no.

Comparison has always been a great foe, and it’s likely worse in motherhood. I stay off of Instagram for this specific reason, and yet, I am still able to see how I am failing as a parent.

Compared to other kids, my kid watch too much TV, eat too much junk, have too many meltdowns, are exposed to too many chemicals, have too many toys, are too spoiled, are not disciplined enough, are too disciplined, don’t wear enough protection from the sun, are not exposed to enough learning activities, are poorly dressed, and on and on and on. And, it’s my fault.

OK, I can get over the all natural food and the TV (well, some of the time), but I worry that I am not doing enough to instill emotional safety in them. I sit with people all day who felt like they had to take care of everyone in their family and now it’s hurting them. Or, others who can’t enter into friendships or relationships because their fear of abandonment is crippling. People who learned early on that they’re aren’t good enough, no matter what they do. People who carrying around these deeply embedded beliefs about themselves that have inhibited their ability to live the life they want.

That’s my biggest fear.

Nearly every day I am hit with fear that I am messing my kids up in some big way because I am taking shortcuts or am too exhausted to be patient with the process or that I just don’t know any better. This anxiety is at the heart of every argument that I have with my husband about parenting, and yet I can’t help feeling like I am not fighting enough for their sake.

The lovely Rachel Accurso aka Ms. Rachel recently said that she often reminds herself that there is no way to be the perfect mother but there are a million ways to be a good mother.

The truth is, I am doing my best. I do beat myself up when I see mothers stick to a no-screens policy at home or other kids happily eat the veggies and meat on their plates, and that’s hard. However, I do have to remember that these things do not define me as a mother.

What does are the little dance parties we have in our living room before bed. And, the games we make up at the dinner table. And, especially, their faces when I come to pick them up at the end of the day.

While I am far from a perfect mother and probably farther from the mother that I thought I would like, my kids live in a happy home. They are taken care of, emotionally and physically, and they are loved. I can’t ask for anymore than that.

You Should Check Out ... Ms. Rachel. OK, I know this is a bit silly because anyone with children under the age of five knows of Ms. Rachel, but she is an incredible human. She truly loves children and doesn’t take her role in their lives, as well as their parents’ lives, for granted. Also, she sticks to her values and to the welfare of all children. When people came after her for taking a Pro-Palestine stance and wanting more for Palestinian children, she doubled down. In all the dark of this world, Ms. Rachel is a bright star.

In my drafts folder, I have several empty posts with just headlines as a reminder to write about specific topics. I jotted this one down several months ago, likely after a session when I threw too many ideas for coping skills at a client. I am a therapist and why not write about grounding techniques? Maybe that will show more authority than going on about my own emotions, I thought.

Many clients are skeptical when I start using words such as grounding techniques, mindfulness, self-care, and coping skills. Or, maybe that is my own projection, because even as a clinician, I start to roll my eyes when others talk about these things. First, they are over used phrases, often used to shrill products or services at us, and second, they seem so basic. So, you mean if I just take a couple of breaths I will feel better? Yeah, sure. OK.

It’s actually true, though, and it infuriates me how true it is. When I am caught up in big, messy emotions, it seems ridiculous that a few breaths or some calming music will infiltrate them. Recently, my husband was having a bit of anxiety attack, and I tried to coach him in some deep breathing so that he could focus on the task at hand. “That shit doesn’t work for me,” he yelled, without trying anything. I get it, though. I was there, too.

However, through a lot of my own therapy as well as being a counselor, I’ve come to truly understand how important small distractions and calming exercises can be to lowering our heartrate, reminding our body we are safe, and bringing the emotions down so we can think more clearly. And, this isn’t anecdotal evidence. This stuff is backed by research.

What’s great about these grounding techniques is that you can take them anywhere and some are discreet enough people won’t notice. You do have to practice them, though. We can’t expect to reach for the skills and expect them to be the magic wand to our big, bad emotions. Like with my husband. He had never really done much deep breathing before, so it wasn’t going to work for him in that elevated moment. However, had he tried it or something else at other times when his emotions were a bit more manageable, it would have been an easier tool to access. Somethings won’t work, though, and that is OK. You just have to practice to figure out what helps.

Here are some techniques that I like to share with my clients but also use myself.

• Box Breathing: There are tons of different breathing techniques out there, but this one is simple and can be done for 3 seconds or 3 minutes, whatever you need. In for four, hold for four, out for four, hold for four. You can even draw a picture of a box moving your eyes.

• Categories: Pick a topic and start naming things. A therapist used this once for me when I came into a session extremely anxious, and she asked me to name major marathons, knowing that I love running. I also use it when I am trying to sleep and doom scrolling through all of my most embarrassing moments. My go-to category is Taylor Swift albums, including the Taylor’s Versions.

• Senses: This can be used in two different ways. First, there is 5-4-3-2-1. Name five things you can see in the moment, four can you hear, three you can touch, two you can smell, and one you taste (or whatever order you want). The second way to use is this to have something comforting in each of the senses to go to when you are struggling. This could be a favorite pillow for touch or piece of chocolate for taste. I have a Pinterest board called “Visual Comfort” of pleasing photos that I browse through when stressed, and I listen to my wedding song when I need a pick me up. Having these nearby can help in any high-emotion event.

• Go outside. Even in the winter. Just being with the sun or the rain or the grass can do so much to bring us back to ourselves.

• Take a mental break. This visualization exercise is completely directed by you. Maybe you envision your favorite place or somewhere you would like to go, real or made up. Maybe you bring up a particular happy memory. Whatever it is, go there fully and let yourself feel everything you can.

• Journal. This could be actual pen to paper or just writing a computer. Sometimes all we need to do is get the words out of our heads.

• Move your body. This could mean exercise, or it could mean shaking out your nervous system. After a specifically tense session or when my kids are really amped up, I put on Taylor Swift’s Shake It Off and move my body until the adrenaline is gone. Again, do this for 60 seconds or five minutes, and you will feel better.

• Music. Music is the perfect anecdote to any mood or emotion. It could be classical and soft, or deep base and rapid drums. Even a podcast my kids listen to (yes, they do have podcasts for toddlers) talked about using music to “stomp out your mad.”

Do you have a favorite coping skill or ground technique? I would love to hear it!

You should check out … How We Feel app. This is a great app to use to track and name your emotions, both in the ups and downs. It also gives you the chance to jot down thoughts associated with those emotions and things you can do to help manage the emotions in the moment.

Chicago winters are harsh. It’s one of the first things people mention when I say I lived in the Windy City for seven years, along with the high cost of living and guessing that I love deep dish (I do not). Nestled next to Lake Michigan and being smack dab in the Midwest, the winter brings a stingy cold that pinches your face and weeks of unending gray. The city doesn’t stop for the season, but it definitely slows down.

Then, a warm day comes. The sun reappears. Maybe in March, if you are lucky, but usually April. The parkas, gloves, and hats are shed, and if you are feeling specifically optimistic, you might dig out a pair of wrinkled shorts. The Lake Shore Path, which was mostly deserted for the last few months, has high traffic with runners, cyclists, strollers, and the odd roller skater. The streets in Lakeville, Logan Square, and Old Town are slower due to an influx of pedestrians out for a walk or trying to find an open bar with a patio.

After the long, often cruel winter, the city is back. Chicago is alive again.

This was one of my favorite moments when I lived in the city. You could feel a pulse, an energy return, and it’s like everyone took a big sigh and said, “AH, this is why we live here.” Sometimes the weather could fake us out, and we might have more dreary weeks, but this one day was a sign things were changing. Soon, there would be street festivals, music in Millennium Park, rooftop bars, and long afternoons at the beach. A new mood, a new lightness was coming.

The feeling of relief that Spring brings can be felt in any part of the country where winter is harsh, but it’s also not exclusive to winter. You feel it when you are going through a grueling work out and it is over. Or, after a long day of travel and you can finally rest your head on your own pillow in your own bed. Sigh. It’s over. Time for acknew.

Lately, I find myself settling into that relief. The little things feel more special, and the hard things feel manageable. The sky is bluer. My coffee tastes sweeter. My love for my kids and husband feels more encompassing. There is no longer a shadow, a knot in the back of my throat. The fog is gone.

This is what it feels like coming out of a depressive episode, not dissimilar to the brightness of the first Spring day. It feels fresh and comforting, and also you can remind yourself you made it.

For the first time in months, maybe even since the birth of my second child 22 months ago, I finally feel like myself again. I can easily find gratitude and joy without a darkness lingering overhead. I enjoy the things I have always, and I feel excited and optimistic about life in a way that I haven’t for a very long time. There might be several reasons for this, but I am not in a rush to analyze it. Rather, I just want to enjoy being on the other side of a long, dark period.

Because I have lived with depression for more years than I have not, I am not naïve enough to think it will never come back for me. It likely will, and that is what it is. What I know now, though, is that it’s about cycles, and just because the depression may come back, so will this feeling of content and ease.

Once I had a client who was frustrated that their depression seemed to return and that they couldn’t find permanent resolve. They would have periods when it felt like they were living the life they wanted, but then depression would sneak up on them. It was debilitating. I tried to show them that yes we fall down again but we also get back up, and that neither state really is permanent. While not every human suffers from depression or anxiety, all people have times when life is better than others. That’s just part of the contract of being alive. While that can be a bummer, fighting it can lead to more suffering. What I have learned, and what I try to share with my clients, is that acceptance is the best tool we have. We must accept that when we aren’t doing as well that we may need extra care and can’t be exactly the person we want. Later, when we feel more like ourselves, we can turn everything up, and then soak it all in.

That’s what I am try to do now. Depression may come for me again, but I won’t waste time right now worrying about it. Rather, I am going to wake up before the sun to run, play with my kids a bit longer even though it’s time to leave the house, and blast my favorite song while staring into the sky. I want to take it all in, because when life get’s harder, and undoubtedly will, I know I will be ready.

You should check out … Couples Therapy. I love this show. I watched it when it first premiered and recently returned to it, skipping a couple of seasons. But this show is so so good at the nailing the complexities of relationships and being human. It’s a marvelous experiment in showing that relationships are more than just staying or going.

One of the unexpected hard parts of being a new mom, for me, was the three-hour cycle.

I expected sleepless nights. I expected big emotions as my little one tried to human, and I tried to figure out how to care for a brand new person. I expected poopy diapers, days without showers, and tears around breastfeeding. What I didn’t know about life with a newborn was that it was dictated by timers.

My clock app had several alarms to remind me when to next feed the baby, when to take my next set of over-the-counter pain pills, and to track how long she was sleeping. It was the same cycle over and over. Feed. Play. Sleep. Feed. Play. Sleep. Diaper changes would be tossed in as needed and, if I was lucky, a shower or meal for me her attached to me.

At first, the schedule was a bit fun. I’d watch TV while she fed and napped next to her in the bassinet while she slept. The rest of the world continued on as usual, but we were shuttered in together, our chests often breathing in unison. However, the routine became tiresome. I couldn’t keep the timers straight, and I began to loathe the sound of my alarm. There was never enough time to do anything else besides feed, change, and sleep, and it often felt that just as I got her down it was time to wake her back up again.

My daughter is now three and half, and I also have a son who is 22 months, and yet the monotony of routine and the same set of activities still permeates our lives. They wake me up often before alarms are set to ring or the sun has fully risen. They demand breakfast and then to be entertained. We go to the same parks. We play the same games. We even eat the same foods thanks to their very picky tastes. Back home for lunch and then naps (thanks to the almighty that they both still nap for now), and then it’s the same outings, meltdowns, and distractions until bedtime. Mondays and the start of the work week often present relief.

During the more tedious times of mothering, I often find myself looking for some kind of dopamine hit to get through the day. Sometimes that is a triple-shot latte or an impromptu stop at the bakery before park time. It could be scrolling through my phone while the kids play or promising myself a glass of wine and numbing TV after they are in bed. During those newborn days, when she was fast sleep, I often scrolled through Amazon looking for quick fixes to whatever baby-issue I was having at the moment and relishing in the little package that arrived a few days later. Recently, I tried to give up alcohol, sugar, and caffeine thinking I would feel less tired and more energized without these crutches. My mother teased that I gave up everything fun. Eventually, I went back to coffee daily and occasionally have a beer or a sweet treat. With coffee, I needed a jolt to breakup the sameness of every day.

Obviously, I hate this feeling of boredom, and feel like a terrible mom for having it. In fact, I had gotten an email from a parenting expert/influencer, one I really admire, with the email subject, “Do you find playtime BORING?” Yes, I screamed in my head. She gets it, she gets me. Her email was less validating than I had hoped, though. There was some reassurance but mostly the argument that I just don’t know how to play (which isn’t untrue thanks to being raised in a society that values productivity) and that she could teach me how if I joined her app at $280 a year. While tempting, the email actually made me feel a bit worse, which I am sure was not her intention but guilt is a good way to convert sales.

The email made me feel like there was something wrong with me that I find motherhood boring and monotonous and that to get over that I would have to change. But, what if motherhood just is boring? Could I make peace with that? a

We don’t do boredom well. Thanks to constant access to information, stimulation, and each other, we do not know how to be bored and we fear it. Once I heard someone talk about going to the dentist and three different times the staff tried to give him an iPad while he waited for his dental hygienist to start his cleaning. He turned them down each time, not minding the chance to sit with his own thoughts for a bit. He said that from the time he sat down to the time the hygienist was ready for him it was approximately seven minutes, but the staff was so worried that he couldn’t handle that and kept trying to offer him a screen.

Raising kids can be really boring, especially when they are little. Yes, we do have to watch them and there can be big meltdown along with funny, giggly moments, but a lot of it is the same. We aren’t stimulated in the way we would be if we got to choose how we spent at a Saturday morning. Especially when children are my kids’ ages, our time is held hostage and we just kind of have to go with it, no matter if it feels boring and tedious.

What I’ve realized, though, is fighting the boredom is not helpful. I don’t like having to numb my way through motherhood. I want to be present and engaged, and maybe part of that is just accepting that sometimes I am gonna feel really f-ing bored. Also, letting go of engagement as an expectation, because who can be engaged in the same game of tag every day? That doesn’t mean I have to stress myself out to be better at play or coming up with a zillion activities so that we all feel overscheduled and rundown. It just means sitting with the boredom and letting it be just that. Monotony won’t kill me, and it will challenge me to take more self-care breaks and use my free time more wisely.

I guess motherhood is boring. So be it. It probably will feel different at different stages, but also boring is not bad. Boring may mean the lack of excitement, but it also means the lack of drama and urgency and fear. If that’s the case, I will take boring.

You Should Check Out … Insight Timer. Mindfulness is an excellent way to manage boredom, restlessness, and general mental health. Nearly every study on mindfulness indicates it can bring overall positive benefits to our lives. There are lots of apps for mindfulness and meditation (which is just one form of mindfulness), but this is by far my favorite and you get a lot from the free version.

I am not good at being still.

Sitting in the therapy chair, I likely change my position about 30 times during session, often reaching for a cup of tea or a water bottle throughout the 45 minutes.

Watching movies, I often get restless and get up to do something else to the point I rarely watch them anymore. Even watching a half-hour show, I am usually painting my nails or coloring, something to keep my hands busy as my body has a very hard time coming to a complete stop.

In life, I have a two-year itch problem. I start something, often a job, but then as the newness wears off, my eyes begin to wander. What else could I be doing? What else should I be doing?

This is how I felt in 2018. I had been at my non-profit marketing job for a year and half and felt miserable. The pay was good, I had just received a promotion, and my office was in the heart of the city, allowing me to eat my lunch along the Chicago River or bop over to a trendy bar for happy hour. But, I felt blah. I wasn’t tied to the mission, and I didn’t have much zest for writing social media and video scripts. I had been talking about graduate school for a few years, but had yet to land on a specific degree. Counseling was an idea I had had for nearly a decade, and so I thought I might as well apply to schools and see what happens, knowing I could drop out of the process at any point.

Five months later, I resigned from that position to begin a long journey to become a counselor. It started with three years of schooling, half of which was entirely online thanks to COVID-19. I then had to pass the National Counseling Examination to become provisionally licensed. The last but still lengthy step was to complete 3,000 supervised hours, with 1,200 of those direct clinical hours. When I first started my program, it seemed daunting that it would be five years until I became a fully licensed counselor, but I continued to work at it, taking it step by step.

My husband and I moved to another state shortly after I completed my graduate degree, and because I didn’t know much about the counseling scene in my new hometown, I took the first job that was offered to me. It was at an inpatient-psychiatric hospital, which is the kind of counseling I definitely did not want to do. But, the job paid decently, and I figured I was limited in my options as a provisional therapist so I took it. The job was incredibly hard, but I learned much more than if I had gone into private practice right away. Still, it was my definitive goal to leave that job for private practice once I became fully licensed. Another benchmark to hit.

My personal life was also evolving along with my career. Shortly after I accepted the hospital position, I found out that I was pregnant with my first child, a dream that had been years in the making. I continued at the hospital, still planning to make an exit once I had my full license, and then a few months before I completed my hours, I was surprised to find out that I was pregnant with our second child. Because I did not want to build a case load only to go on maternity leave and I needed health insurance, I decided to stay at my hospital job. My goal was to return to that position, and when I felt OK in my postpartum journey, look at moving to private practice.

While I was on maternity leave with my son, a counseling job at the local community college opened. Working at the college setting was one of my goals for my counseling career when I was in graduate school, and I had loved my internship at a community college during graduate school. In fact, after my husband had taken a job at the same community college, which is what prompted us to move a few states west, I had hoped something in school’s wellness center would open. “It’s unlikely,” people told me. “People rarely leave those jobs.”

When one did open, I knew I had to apply. I had to take a massive pay cut, but for my career interests and the extra time I got off working for a school, it was a good fit for our family. I accepted immediately when the offer came.

Now, I am about to go into my fourth semester as a counselor on campus, having been fully licensed for two years, and our family is complete, with my son approaching two years.

And, here comes the itch.

The itch can disguises itself in a lot of ways. Not feeling passionate about the particular work. Wanting to be in a different city or state. Looking for career advancement.

For me, it’s been about money. College counseling is not the most lucrative type of therapy, and because I took a pay cut and everything seems more expensive lately, we are feeling that financial strain. I get caught up in comparisons and the flawed ideas of what could make us happier, all pointing to the conclusion that I should be making more. The pressure to make more money has led me to contemplate other career options, which naturally leads me to private practice. That always seemed to be the path: graduate school, provisional license, supervised hours, full license, private practice.

Yet, as much as I go over it in my head, private practice doesn’t feel right to me at this time. Yes, the potential to make more money is there, but money is not guaranteed and it would require a lot of labor, patience, and time to get to that point, likely around a couple of years. It would also mean learning to run a business and using free time to do billing, budgets, marketing- a lot of non-counseling things.

I’ve been tortured by the idea for months because I felt like I had to take the next step for the money but it doesn’t feel right. The thing about money is that it can always be an excuse to do something or to not do something. It will always have an influence, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t always the right reason to make a decision, especially if it is the only reason.

Looking back on the last seven years, I’ve been always working towards a goal of some sort or had just made some kind of change. The dust has settled and that itch is coming back, but what if I don’t answer it? What if I just decide to let the itch be there without acting on it?

Yes, I could be making more money elsewhere, but that doesn’t mean I don’t like my job. In fact, I love my job. I love getting to work with students of all ages and backgrounds, some of them coming to counseling for the first time and some of them returning to counseling after bad experiences as a child. I also love getting to do bigger picture things, like different workshops or program collaborations, things that wouldn’t be as easy to implement outside of a community college. Also, my job comes with flexibility that I get most of the time off that my family does, especially for holidays, and I work only part-time in the summer. I hate worrying about money, but I also love that I get to spend a random Thursday morning with my son at the park, watching his face delight as he throws rocks into the river. You don’t get that kind of time back.

My itch to do something more or be something more led me to great places in my 20s and 30s. But, I am not sure that always looking to what’s next is serving me anymore. At some point, do I get to stop and enjoy what I have worked so hard for, both professionally and personally, instead of turning around and finding something else to go after? Because what is life if we always leaping frogging to the next stone without fully landing on this one?

In her brilliant book How We Learn To Be Brave, Mariann Edgar Budde writes about the decisive moments in our lives, some that come with great fanfare and others that are more quiet. She states that sometimes we will be called to go and without every fiber of our being we must answer it. Yet, in other times, we are called to stay, and again, we must answer.

“Given the drama, adrenaline, and outward energy involved in deciding to go, staying put can feel like being trapped. Yet the decision to stay also can be brave and consequential. Making that choice, particularly when there are compelling reasons to leave, involves a similar internal struggle and building sense of crisis, leading to a decisive moment, as strong as the decision to go. But there the similarity ends, for in deciding to stay, we choose to go deeper into the life we already have.”

I want to enjoy my life as it is, without scrambling for more. It’s not perfect and there are sacrifices, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t good. I will have to watch the capitalistic images that trying to sell me more and when my mind starts to list all the things I lack compared to others, but I think those are good exercises anyway. I worked for this life, and I want to live it.

You Should Check Out … How We Learn To Be Brave: Decisive Moments in Life and Faith by Marianne Edgar Budde. This book is amazing and warm and kind and reassuring in whatever decisive moment you might be facing. It’s one of the best books I’ve read recently. One of my favorite quotes from the chapter on staying: “Even in situations that we desperately want to leave, we may well come to the astonishing realization that staying is our choice. We are not trapped. We are agents of our destiny..”

I should do some laundry.

I should meal prep.

I should do some work on marketing my private practice.

I should do a workout.

I should work on the yard.

I should write a Substack post.

I should work on continuing education credits.

I should run to the store.

I should do whatever house/kid/work project my brain thinks I need to get done ASAP.

I never want to do any of these things. Honestly, most of the time, I just want to read until I fall asleep and nap until they wake up. Even now, as I write this, after having napped a bit, with one child still napping and the other out with her dad, I am thinking about all the other “shoulds” asking for my attention.

Call it perfectionism or toxic productivity birthed by a capitalist society, but many of us live with “shoulds” bouncing around in our heads all day. There are a demon that is never satisfied, so no matter how many tasks we cross off the to-do list, there is always another lurking behind the couch just as you sit down to rest. It’s impossible to keep up.

Lately, in a lot of reflecting, I’ve been asking myself what I truly need in any given moment. As a woman with a penchant for people pleasing, I’ve learn to bury myself in carrying for others wants and needs. This makes me a good mother and therapist, but very poor at taking care of myself at times. Like most mothers, I am often the last to eat at any meal. I burned myself out this past spring with poor boundaries and putting others before myself, one of my most harmful “shoulds,” and it took me to a dark place. To heal, I’ve had to be honest with what I need at any given moment, and ignore the should.

So, when nap time comes, I ask myself what is that I need, and almost always it is to rest. I know this because when things that I normally enjoy doing, such as writing or yoga, are considered “to-dos”, it means that I am prioritizing productivity, and that is never a healthy spot for me. Then, I have to shrug my shoulders at all that needs to get done, and go crawl up in my bed.

I know mothers who don’t take naps and use these precious minutes of free time to catch up on chores or work. I am not one of them. For a long time, I used to chastise myself because I always surrendered to sleep. It felt like a character flaw. Eventually, and probably still, I had to accept that I was just going to be a mom who napped when her kids did. Not because I was worse or lazy, but because that it is what I needed, and so I leaned into it.

Because I work with students, many of my students often talk about feeling overwhelmed with school, work, and life. They often feel rundown and exhausted. When I ask them about rest, though, they get ashamed. They admit to watching TV or playing video games, sometimes for hours. They feel this makes them lazy, like they also have a character flaw. I hated that word, lazy. Few people are truly lazy. It’s a word driven to by a capitalist, over-consumed society that is try to make productivity and accomplishments about morality. We use this word to beat ourselves up, to judge ourselves, and to motivate ourselves. But, it doesn’t work, because we are tired.

I often ask my clients if when we they are watching TV or playing video games if they are truly resting, or if they are internally yelling at themselves with all the “shoulds” they should be doing. Almost aways, it’s the latter. That’s not rest. That’s judgement, and so even if they do have downtime for a few hours a day or week, they are still not actually restoring so they continue to be exhausted.

We are allowed rest. We are allowed to ignore the to-dos, some of them for a bit and some of them forever. We are allowed to take naps, binge TV, play video games, or whatever it is we think we shouldn’t be doing. Self-care can be active, like journaling, meditating, or exercising. But, it can also be passive, like laying around in your pajamas for the day. The key is to tune in and know what you truly need in that moment. If you are worried about doing it for so long that you avoid your responsibilities, then set a timer. But allow yourself that passive rest in which you are not producing, accomplishing, or completing.

The best way to get rid of should is to find out where it is coming from. Is it expectations from others or too high of expectations we put on ourselves? Sometimes we do have to do the shoulds. That is part of adulting, unfortunately. But, they don’t have to control us. We do not have to wear ourselves down for some version of ourselves we think might be better. In fact, the better version is the one that knows there is a lot of stuff to do but decides to nap anyway because it will allow us to be a better parent when our children wake up.

Should won’t help us be the people we want to be, but rest will. We may not be perfect but we are lighter and happier.

You should check out … Real Self-Care: A Transformative Program for Redefining Wellness by Dr. Pooja Lakshmin. This is an excellent look at our wellness culture trying to sell us self-care and why the latest TikTok trend won’t work. Thankfully, Dr. Lakshmin tells us what does.

Most birthing parents have an idea of how they want labor to go. Unmedicated or medicated. At home or in a hospital. Just their partner in the delivery or lots of loved ones witnessing the arrival of their child.

Sometimes, we get the births we want, but other times, often for reasons out of our control, we do not.

I was adamant that I would not have a C-section. Many of the women in my family had them, but I, assuming it was all in my control, refused. This was mostly because the idea of trying to recover from surgery while welcoming a newborn into my life seemed daunting, and I wasn’t sure I could handle it. For my first child, I hired a doula and studied several different laboring techniques. I made a plan that I gave to my doctor, who suggested that the less detailed a plan the better (hinting that I maybe had too much expectation for birth). I knew what music I wanted and what instructions I was planning to give to the hospital staff. Things would go the way I wanted them, I was determined.

Of course, as you can guess, they did not. My daughter ended up being breeched, and by the time we found out, there were few options for us. One of them was to find a doctor willing to do a breached vaginal delivery, but I didn’t want to add the stress of calling physicians and then traveling to one on top of what I was already experiencing. So, the simplest path forward was a C-section.

When I became pregnant with my second child, I still wanted to try a VBAC, or a vaginal birth after Caesarean. My doctor was onboard, until I got closer to 40 weeks and my cervix hadn’t yet begun to open. At my age, 39, he did not want to go any further past 40 weeks and scheduled the C-section.

The day I went in to see him and we discussed this I happened to have a cold. “How do you know it’s not COVID?” he asked. I hadn’t considered it. He told me that I would have to test negative before he would perform the surgery. I left his office to pick up a test, and when I took it, it turned positive faster than the pregnancy test I took nine months earlier. The C-section was rescheduled for the following week.

For days, I was the sickest I have ever been, while also uncomfortably pregnant. I was miserable. By the fourth day, I had turned a corner and was finally starting to feel good enough to interact with my family (still at a distance from my 19-month-old daughter). I was sitting in our living room, getting ready to watch some trashy TV, when my water broke. My husband and I hurried off to the hospital and were told on admission that it was Baby Time.

The on-call doctor had reached out to my doctor who confirmed he was OK with a VBAC. I was exhausted from the COVID and in pain, so I decided to have the epidural. For reasons I still don’t understand, it took the doctor over two hours to get it in place and working as it should. Once that epidural took affect, I started to relax a bit. I was about to have a baby, and this time, I was actually going to labor and deliver the baby on my own. I closed my eyes thinking I would finally get to experience real birth.

That reassurance and relief disappeared fairly quickly when the doctor and a team of nurses all rushed into the room. My husband said he knew something was wrong by the shear number of people that were in the room. The baby’s heartrate was dropping incredibly low every time I had a contraction, and it was not recovering. They were also concerned because my cervix was progressing slowly. They decided to reposition me and monitor for a bit, but if things didn’t improve, they would have to intervene.

Less than an hour later, they were back. My baby was still struggling, and I was only at 3.5 centimeters. The doctor said I would likely have to labor for hours, and he did not think my baby could handle that. It was my decision, but he suggested an emergency C-section. At that moment, it didn’t matter what I wanted. My baby being born safe and healthy was the number one priority, so I said let’s go.

Between the epidural and the anesthesia required for the surgery, I was incredibly drowsy. With my first, I was aware of what was happening at all times and could hear my husband’s voice. This time, I was desperately trying to keep my eyes open. I could not, would not, fall asleep during the birth of my son. I tried to focus on sounds, waiting until someone said he was out or I could hear him cry. But there was nothing.

Someone mentioned something about starting to stitch me up, and that’s when I said, “Wait, he is out?” I looked over, and several nurses were crowded around the table in which my son was lying on. “Why isn’t he crying?”

I begged my husband to go check on him. He, too, did not know the baby had been delivered as he was focusing on me and their was a screen at my waist portioning me off into two parts.

“Why isn’t he crying?” I asked again, slightly more alert with panic.

My husband came back and said that he was initially purple and that he wasn’t breathing. He had meconium in his lungs and the cord had been wrapped around his neck. My husband said the baby was now breathing, but they had to take him to the nursery. I told my husband to go with him, and then closed my eyes as the doctor worked on stitching me up.

In the recovery room, when I came to, the nurse was cleaning me up, complaining to another nurse about the day shift. Where is my baby, I asked. They said he was OK and in the nursery with my husband. They would bring him in soon. More than an hour had passed at this point, meaning I had missed the Golden Hour, which breastfeeding experts say is the pivotal time to offer the first feed to a baby. I worried that this meant I would never be able to feed my child because our opportunity was gone.

My husband eventually walked in holding our baby, who was seemingly fine. We attempted feeding with a few rough starts, but then eventually got it. Later, we were moved into our room and began getting to know each other.

Despite those first few moments, our son ended up being a very healthy baby and had no problems. He even got to go home a day later.

However, what stayed with me for months after was that I did not have what felt like a special first moment with my son. With my daughter, I clearly remember them placing her on my chest and telling her I loved her so much. With my son, I don’t have many memories from his birth or the hours after. I don’t really remember the first time I met him, and that breaks my heart. It was no one’s fault, but it feels like that special moment was ripped away from me.

I didn’t get to grieve that moment for so long, in fact I didn’t realize it was something I had lost. When you have a baby, you are supposed to forget about all the pain and suffering that lead up to that moment once the infant has arrived. You are supposed to dive headfirst into parenting, a role you are supposed to be an expert in on the first day. You aren’t allowed to be sad or disappointed or angry, especially if you have a healthy baby. You are only allowed to be grateful.

Working with my therapist, though, I realized that I was grieving that lost memory and that because I didn’t have that, there was a disconnection between my son and I. I loved him, sure, but something felt bland. I realized that without that specific memory to call up on each night as I fed him at 3 am I felt more separated from him. I am his mother; I should remember vividly the day we met, but I couldn’t, which also made me feel like I had failed him in some major way.

Thankfully, with my therapist, I was able to grieve not having this moment and what that meant to me and then find another memory of my son that brought love and joy. My love for him grew deeper, and I found that mother-baby connection with him. Now, at almost two years later, I have so many love and joy filled moments with him that I have more than enough to call upon when I want to reach that emotion.

Too often, we don’t stop to ask mothers what happened to them before, during, or after birth. We assume it doesn’t matter. By doing that, though, we don’t give mothers the opportunity to explore the hard parts of birth, leaving them to believe their emotions and experiences don’t really matter. Those feelings don’t go away, though. They stay with women and later manifest as depression, trauma, anxiety, or other mental health issues. Almost always, I ask women about their births and pregnancies, even if they have adult children.

Women deserve to not be OK with how their labors went, even if they didn’t have major complications and they came out with a healthy baby. But also if they did have major complications and their babies have health issues. It shouldn’t be one or the other, and we shouldn’t rush past the delivery part because it is over. Women need to process what they went through, whether with a therapist or friends and family. Birthing a child is a major health event, and we need to make space for processing the emotions that come with it.

You Should Check Out … The Retrievals podcast. This podcast is some of the absolute best storytelling I have seen recently. The first season is about women who experience incredible pain during egg retrievals as part of the IVF process at one well-known hospital. The second season is about the often not talked about but very common pain women experience during C-sections. While the main stories are different, the theme of both seasons is the same: we do not believe women’s pain.

Before becoming an homeowner, I envisioned our one-day house would come with a glorious and luscious yard. The grass would be a vibrant green and stand neat but soft. Their would be inviting flowers of purples, pinks, and yellows, and maybe there would be a vegetable garden that would produce crisp vegetables and greens to accompany a slab of meat fresh off the grill.

This illusionary lawn seemed mostly standard to other yards I often observed on walks or bike rides in the various places I’ve lived, and I assumed yards were naturally like that. I didn’t realize, until I was a homeowner, that it actually requires work. Like a lot of work.

When we experienced our first spring in our home, I was coming off maternity leave and transitioning back to work. My husband, a college instructor, was spending all of his summer days with our new daughter. Neither of us had time or energy to care about the lawn, let alone anything that did not revolve around our daughter.

Our second summer in the home, I was pregnant with our son. Again, my husband’s time was occupied with keeping our daughter entertained during the day, in addition to teaching a summer course, and I was pregnant and hot and tired. Again, no energy or interest.

The third summer, we had two kids, and while I was now home part-time because I too worked at the college, our lives seemed even more overwhelming with a six month old and a two year old. By this part, we finally noticed what sad shape our yard was in. Not only was it overrun with weeds in certain areas but there was also several sizable bare patches where the grass had died. We tried to seed some of it, but couldn’t keep up with the maintenance of getting new grass to grow. My husband mowed the lawn when it became obnoxiously overgrown but that was it.

Our yard is fairly pathetic, and it is something I feel ashamed about on a daily basis, along with other house projects that continuously get pushed off due to daily life and the exhaustion that follows. I am constantly sizing up other yards, noticing all the glory they have compared to what ours is lacking. I see the gorgeous flowers. The perfectly manicured greens. The rocks or water features that add a sparkling touch. The owners of these homes have the time, the patience, the energy, and the will to take care of their lawns because that is what adults are supposed to do. And, if they don’t, they pay someone else to do it because they have money to do such things. As a 40-year-old mom, my lawn continues to remind me of everything I am not.

This year, we did try a bit more. We hired a company to do a spring cleanup as well as aerate and seed the lawn. Then, without really much guidance or skill, I tried my best to keep it “damp” as the internet suggested for several days. We ran into snow at least twice during the first two weeks, along with cooler-than-normal temps and, of course, wind. It’s hard to tell if the company did a poor job, if birds or wind got some of the seed, or if I royally screwed up the watering, because only a bit of grass came in. There is still a ton of weeds along with a few bare patches. I had hopes for flowers, but lost steam after the disappointing launch of our yard and not have much more money (or effort) to invest in our yard. And, so for a fourth summer, we have one of the roughest looking yards on the block.

Isn’t it funny what silly things we make up to feel bad about ourselves? The stories we tell to remind ourselves that we are somehow lacking and not enough. Like, here I am, writing paragraphs about feeling like a terrible adult because my lawn looks worse than that of my friends and neighbors. What a silly, silly thing to beat myself up about it.

Yet, I do.

That’s kind of the world we live in. We are bombarded with messages and images of how we should be. We drown ourselves in expectations and comparisons. We are always striving to be more, do more, obtain more. We keep going, spending, doing to more. Yet, there we are always lacking in some capacity. One piece of our lives (or for most of us, many pieces) that we just can’t get right.

With my lawn, part of me tells myself that I will have more time and energy to invest into making it up to yard standards (whatever that is) when my kids are a bit older and they aren’t preoccupying any non-work, non-sleep time I have. But, I don’t know if that is true, because there are lots of other things I want to do with my free time, such as run or write, which much more needed for my mental health than doing yard work. What if my yard never lives up to what I expect it should be based on what other yards look like? Will that mean I have failed as an adult?

That is up to me. Maybe I can find acceptance for my lawn for it’s weeds, bare spots, and dead areas. Maybe I can know that just because the grass isn’t green and pristine my kids can still giggle as they run through it chasing each other. Maybe I can see that even though my house doesn’t have bright summer flowers outside to greet visitors that the inside is full of life and love. Maybe I can let my yard just be what it is and know that it has absolutely no correlation to the kind of person I am, how hard I work, or what I care about. I am just a busy woman with two kids and full-time job and a meh lawn.

If I can let go of the need to meet arbitrary expectations with my lawn, imagine what else I could let go of.

You should check out … The Perfectionist’s Guide to Losing Control: A Path to Peace and Power. This is an excellent book on why being a perfectionist can actually be good thing as long you learn to use your perfectionism for good. As a life-long perfectionist, I found this book incredibly helpful.