The premise is that all of the gifts had been delivered on Christmas night to every kid except for one. Santa has two sons, Steve, who is the militant-like technological lead behind Santa’s modern day efforts, and Arthur who is the wholesome Amelia Bedelia type character of the family. He is the one who goes through Santa’s letters and responds to all of the kids. His admiration and joy for Christmas is a driving force for everything that he does. When Arthur finds out a child has been missed, him and Grand-Santa take the old fashion sleigh and the offspring of the OG reindeer out with an elf from gift wrapping to hand deliver the missing bike to Gwen before the sun rises on Christmas morning.

Arthur places an envelope in a stocking on Gwen’s bed attached to a ribbon. Inside the envelop reads “Look under the tree!” He then runs the ribbon all the way down the stairs, rounds the corner, and ties a large beautiful bow even as Gwen began to make her way downstairs, since “there’s always time for a bow” on Gwen’s brand new bike.

Seamus was a student at an outdoor nature school in the park across from our house on Monday’s and Wednesdays. Wednesday’s were “bike day”, where every kid would bring a bike to school - either a balance bike or a pedal bike, and they would ride their bike all over the park, sometimes taking “field trips” on their bikes to the local fire station, or the Botanical Gardens.

Seamus was still pretty young, so we had him on a balance bike, which is a bike with no pedals or training wheels. Just two wheels that he moves along by running his feet along the ground, gradually learning the ways of balancing on a bike.

One day, John and I received a video from his teacher. Our super active, FOMO kid always skipped naptime, just like his mama would at his age. He was always curious what activities he could get into instead. It turns out, during naptime while his classmates rested, he and the teacher would practice riding a pedal bike. She sent us a video of him riding around the parking lot, quickly, confidently, fully in control, while squealing “I’m doing it!! I’m doing it all by myself!!”

We found a restored second-hand pedal bike made especially for young kids at a local nonprofit bike shop. Not only was it two of his favorite colors - green and blue - but it also had a trex bell already attached to the handle. These bikes normally go for $260, and we scored it for $40! Fucking jackpot!

The night of Christmas eve, Seamus slept soundly in our bed as John and I wrapped last minute gifts, ate the cookies he had set out, and drank the glass of milk. Before we went upstairs well after 1am, John set up Seamus’ new bike, kickstand and all, underneath the tree. Tired and groggy, but giddy for the following day, we tied a giant bow on it with a ribbon, since there’s always time for a bow, and walked the rest of the ribbon up the stairs. When we got to the top, we left a little note that said “Look under the tree!”

That morning, Seamus excitedly woke us up before we were ready to rise.

That morning, Seamus jumped up and down while asking us to read what was written on the card.

That morning, Seamus screamed — “A pedal bike!!! I got a new pedal bike for Christmas!!!! Can I go ride it right now?!?!?”

My sister was flying into town to surprise my parents later that day. Everyone knew except for my mom and my dad.

It was a beautiful fall day as we sat on the patio of the bar. I kept control of all of the conversations, changing subjects when need be, worried Yvonne was going to spill the beans. She would eyeball my parents like she was trying to tell them through her mind and I wanted to kick her under the table, but instead I would just loudly pivot the conversation again.

John got home from work later that day and changed his outfit. I had been keeping track of her flight and told John it looked like it was coming in early. The plan was John and I were going to pick her up and then meet with everyone at a bar across town to unveil the big surprise.

John offered to drive, but I pushed back. I knew we were going to be drinking later, and his car was a stick shift. Our strategy was typically to bring my car out when we went drinking so that whoever was the “most sober” could drive us home. He grabbed his coat in agreement and tossed me my keys. I asked him if he had gone to the bathroom, as he always has a knack for going at the most inopportune times. He swore he had recently went, and we were off to the airport.

On the drive, John kept checking Red Sox baseball game stats on his phone. “What’s the score?” I’d ask each time he’d pull it up, and he’d give me the inside scoop. It was some sort of big game because he was glued in to what was happening.

As we got closer to the airport, John asked if we could park in the hourly parking garage instead of the free cell phone lot. “No!” I said, “Why would I pay to park here when we can park for free until she calls me that she’s ready??”

“I…” John hesitated, “I really have to take a shit…”

I stared at him with a areyoufuckingkiddingme sort of glare — “Are you fucking kidding me??” I asked, “I LITERALLY told you to go to the bathroom before we walked out!”

“I can’t help it!” He said, “If I gotta go, I gotta go! I’ll pay for the parking!”

“Of course you’re going to pay for the parking! I’m not going to pay $15 for you to take a shit!” I guffawed back at him.

We parked in the parking garage and headed inside to the baggage claim area. I b-lined it to the arrivals board to see which corral her luggage would pop out at. “You go to the bathroom, I’m going to see where her suitcase is going to come out…”

“Walk to the bathroom with me, we have time to kill anyway.” John said, looking apologetic and sweet. He was right, we did have time to kill, and the surprise was making me antsy so a brief stroll sounded like a good idea.

We walked down the hallway towards the bathrooms. When we got to the mens, he grabbed my hand and kept walking forward. “What are you doing??” I asked. He smiled wide back at me. Before I could inquire further, we turned a corner.

There was my parents, my brother, his wife and his kids, my aunts and uncles and cousins, our best friends, my grandparents, and his parents all standing in a crowd.

“Wha—whaat is happening????” I asked as John walked me up the stairs to the platform they were all standing on.

He turned to face me and it all hit me. “Ooooooh!!” I squealed, jumping up and down at the realization of what was going down.

He started talking about how much the St. Louis airport had played a crucial role in our relationship. We spent a year flying back and forth to visit one another through this airport. So many passionate hellos in this exact spot, so many intimate and emotional farewells. And once we were no longer long distance, this airport was a catalyst for more adventures together. Flying to Asia. Flying around the country. In that moment, I felt light as air. I myself was flying, flying, flying. My cheeks were red as I felt the pressure of everyone around us — loved ones and stranger travelers passing by. I think at one point, out of pure anxiety I whispered “I’m going to kill you…” to him, though that was the opposite of how I felt.

He got down on his knee and asked me to travel through life with him, holding out a box with a beautiful ring inside, and a colorful alexandrite stone in the middle.

“Yessss!” I squealed, “Yes, yes of course!!”

“Have you guys ever heard of vanlife?” he asked.

I didn’t use Instagram at the time, but my interest was piqued. I downloaded the app, opened it up and began searching around hashtags. The images sucked me in immediately. People cooking meals inside of vans, with epic mountains in the background. Happy dogs sunbathing next to vehicles camped out on beaches. The whole thing was dreamy, dreamy, dreamy.

John and I went back and forth on this idea. What if we did this instead? We could leave quicker in an SUV. But we could be gone longer in a home-on-wheels. If we were gone longer, what would we do with all of our stuff?

What if we got rid of everything?

Within a couple weeks we were driving out to middle-of-nowhere Illinois and handed a stranger $1,500. We drove home in our two separate vehicles, bouncing in our seats at this wild next step we were diving into.

Over the next few months we sold about 95% of our belongings. Most of our clothes, all of our knick knacks, kitchenware, furniture, and most of our books (this one still stings quite a bit).

Each dollar in our pocket went towards our van build. We bought solar panels, an energy-efficient RV fridge, a giant stainless steel wine barrel for our drinking water. We gutted the whole van, ripped out wires, seats and carpeting. We put up insulation, walls, floors, cedar ceiling panels. We wired up new lights, dimmer switches, an inverter to run heftier things like our laptops, and connected them all to our solar panels.

We sold just over $10,000 worth of stuff and it cost us just about $10,000 to deck out our van.

We got renters set up to move into our house (we weren’t quite ready to cut all of our ties just yet), and did the finishing touches in the van. Hanging a basket for fruit and veggies, we stained the counter top a bright blue, and bought a denatured alcohol stove. We took a serrated knife to our queen-sized mattress and cut it into 3 separate pieces. It would become the seat of the couch, the back of the couch, and a platform the dogs would lay on as we drove. At bedtime, we’d slide the bed frame onto our countertop and the cushions would fit perfectly in the frame giving us a queen-sized bed.

The last step before hitting the road: we cashed out our 401ks. We didn’t know what the plan was, but we knew we were going to figure it out.

The van was set up and ready to go. We were stocked with food and the bare essentials. Just the needs, few frivolous items. We always said we wanted to build a home together from scratch. We just never imagined it would have wheels as well.

We beamed with pride as we looked at our work. We hugged our family and friends. Put the dogs in the back. Climbed into the front seat, and drove west towards the welcoming sunset.

John dropped me off at the specialized doctor’s office and then drove across the street to Walmart where they had better cell service so he could video chat me. I got settled into my seat, adjusting my shirt and bottoms to expose my belly for the ultrasound tech and pulled up John’s number on Facetime.

“Can you see alright?” I asked, pointing the camera at the screen.

“Yepp, yeah I can see.” He said, adjusting his glasses and pulling his screen closer to his face.

The ultrasound tech walked in and was bouncy and happy. “We’re going to see our two little boys today right??” She asked with a smile. “Yeah…I hope so..” My voice sounding more hopeful than I felt.

First she put the wand over where Seamus was. As usual, he was kicking and wiggling around like the playful tiger he would grow up to be. The tech was trying to get measurements of him but he kept moving each time she almost had the measurement complete, and we’d laugh at his playfulness. “You’re gonna have heck of a time with this one!” She exclaimed, having another go at it.

“Yeah,” I smiled, the reality that I might actually get to play with him sometime bringing a warmth to the room, “They tell me that every visit. He can never seem to sit still.”

John smiled on his end of the phone watching his son dance and wriggle on the grainy black and white screen.

We were talking about him maybe being a soccer player when she moved the wand over to Killian, who was always our more chill of the two. We always pretended that Seamus would be our extroverted athelete while Killian would be our introverted scholar. Her mouth shifted from an organic smile to a contained expression. Not quite expressionless, but she was clearly mindful of her facial reactions.

All of our back and forths ceased.

The room became heavy in silence.

“Is…is everything looking okay?” I hesitated. The tension entered the room abruptly and seemed to sit directly on my chest to the point I wasn’t positive if I was even breathing.

John, being a half a mile away didn’t pick up on the tension. His choppy screen and audio didn’t paint the whole picture for him. He was in the car looking at the mountains with fresh air around him. I was suffocating under the loud pivot.

The ultrasound tech suddenly put her tools back and turned towards the door. “The doctor will be in to talk with you in just a moment.” She forced a light smirk and exited the room.

“I think something bad is happening John…” I said into the phone, and I explained what just happened with the tech.

The doctor popped his head into the room with a soft look on his face.

“I’m going to ask your husband to come up right away. I’ll be back once he’s settled.”

“Did you hear the John? The doctor wants you to come here…right now.”

Stunned and wide-eyed, John understood and hopped off the call. I’d later find out he was almost in a car accident getting back to the hospital.

But until he got back, I sat there alone.
The room, stagnant.
My breath, intentional.
The silence, ominous.
Our future, unraveling.

Our boys weren’t blessed with such simplicity.

Not only was our sweet Killian sick. He and Seamus had several blood vessels connecting directly to one another instead of their individual segments of the placenta, blood pulsing back and forth between them.

The doctor we worked with told us of other families he had helped in our situation. Their babies may have had one or two blood vessels that he could separate and save both babies. But in our situation, there were far too many intricately entangled connections to safely determine a hopeful outcome.

Our only option was to abort Killian.

He was going to pass away regardless. But if we did nothing, his passing would blow an aftershock through their connected blood vessels that would vastly affect Seamus, either resulting in him becoming severely brain damaged or possibly taking his life as well.

——

I tried for years to write my story about my journey to motherhood and keep it just that: a story about me, my reproductive battles, and my now two healthy children.

But it’s been far more complicated than that.

There’s much more to this story that I had never shared before.

These past several years have not only been about mine and John’s progression to parenthood. It has been that tumultuous path while simultaneously losing a relationship with my mom.

It was not one instance that shattered us, but dozens and dozens of emotional hand grenades I kept diving on top of in order to save us.

I was not able to grieve Killian. I was not able to mourn my ectopic pregnancy. I struggled to be present with my healthy, living children. My main focus was trying to merely survive while begging my mother to be a supportive force in my life.

We had a pattern.

Joy.

Bombs.

Silence.

Act like nothing ever happened.

Repeat.

When we were on good terms, we were happy and inseparable.

We’d video chat multiple times a day. She’d watch and interact with my kids from afar until she’d finally come into town to hold them in person.

I loved watching her with my children. She was meant to be a grandmother. Truly a natural in the role. She’d walk into our home and could immediately sense where we needed her support. She’d dive straight into playing with the kids, changing diapers, cleaning the kitchen, or forcing me to nap or shower. Seamus clung to her like a barnacle and followed her everywhere.

But as her trips came closer and closer to the end, the bombs would start to deploy.

I believe the weight of the upcoming farewells was too heavy for her to hold.

The explosions were always political. It felt like a tick she couldn’t shake.

Laughing in my van for one second, just for her to start yelling at me, “Why do you hate this country so much!?” the second we drove past a car dealership with a large American flag.

She dried my son off after a bath while shouting about how “Black people sold slaves in the first place!”

She’d scream that Killian was not an abortion, no matter how many legal documents I waved in front of her face that we had to sign the night before we cauterized his umbilical cord.

I begged her to stop.

I tried everything I could think of. I recommended books about families with differing political beliefs. I hand wrote her letters. I sent her podcasts. I even made her sign a contract before she came into town for Christmas one year promising she would not bring up politics.

It was one of the greatest visits we’d had. There was absolutely no fighting.

This week will be one year since the last time I heard her voice.

The last time we video chatted, Seamus was showing her one of his dresses. She yelled at him that boys don’t wear dresses. Yelled at him so hard that he took off his dress -- tears falling down his cheeks -- and crawled into my lap, gripping the back of my shirt as if he’d fall off this earth entirely if he were to let go.

I pointed the camera at him to show her the damage she was causing, and she doubled down, yelling harder.

“Boys! Don’t! Wear! Dresses! You better listen to me, Seamus! You’re a groomer, Jayme! You know that’s what they call you, right!?”

The pattern went as it always did.

That was the bomb.

Then silence for a whole month until she randomly reached out, wanting to see me and the kids.

But this time, I broke the cycle.

I would not act like nothing ever happened this time.

I could take her assaults, barrages, and insults. But I drew the line at my children. You do not come after my children.

When I wouldn’t let it go without acknowledgement, apology, or witnessing a change from her, she stopped contacting me.

I didn’t hear from her on my birthday, the anniversary of Killian passing away, Dela’s first birthday, and so on…

My memoir is not only about my journey of becoming a mother.

My memoir is about my journey of becoming a mother while simultaneously losing my own mother, one of my best friends, even though she is still alive.

This isn’t the story I wanted to write.

I tried so hard to separate the two.

But just like Killian and Seamus’ intricately connected strands, my stepping away from my mother is so interwoven with my transition of stepping into my role as a mother. I can’t simply detach the two from each other. They are tightly connected.

Today I had an article go live with Parents.com. My first national publication sharing this side of my story.

I don’t want to hurt her.

I didn’t want to lose her.

But it is so important for me to tell my whole story.

You can read my article here.

One day my mom came to me and asked if I’d want to go to Australia. “There’s a catch..” She said with a pause. I’d miss out on some summertime fun with my classmates. I’d be going with a church and a whole group of people I don’t know. There was a worldwide event called World Youth Day where people travel from all over the planet to attend a mass led by the pope.

I didn’t really care what the rest of the shpiel was. She hooked me at “Do you want to go to Australia” and I was in. Fuck YES I want to go down under.

I was a very social extrovert, so the whole “you won’t know anyone” didn’t intimidate me at all. I was loud enough and silly enough and had enough variety of interests that I was confident in my ability to jive with just about anyone.

It was an unforgettable trip and as expected, I found some degree of compatibility with just about everyone. I talked with one of the leaders about Pink Floyd on one of our flights. I played video games with one of the other teens from across the river in Illinois. I also struck up conversations with people from  Papua New Guinea on the final flight to Sydney, who were heading there for the same reasons.

It was a 10-day trip, if I remember correctly. The first several days, everyone was sent to different regions of Australia to get involved with local communities and do service projects around these towns.

My host parents were this older couple in their 70s. Jane taught me to cook their favorite meals and Bob taught me the ins and outs of Rugby from the comforts of his couch. During the day we would go out on the town and help clean up trash, but I was always most drawn to the kids. I’d hike with them on my back. Chase them around a parking lot. We’d make fun of each other’s accents and teach each other new games.

This small town had a no light pollution law, and it was my first time witnessing the sky sprinkled with endless glitter. They showed me the milky way and I laid on the driveway for hours with the kids resting their heads on my arms legs and bellies as we made up stories of the skies.

There were kangaroo all around town the same way we see deer here. It was wild to me! One day we were out cleaning up some dead limbs and leaves of nearby bushes when a kangaroo hopped out from the bush. “How freaking cool is this??” I shouted as I slowly approached my way towards it. I squatted down next to it and it let me sit there taking in his glory. I was explaining how wild this was to me and everyone around was explaining that this wasn’t a common thing either. There were other kangaroos hopping around nearby and people taking pictures, but I was apparently getting a once-in-a-lifetime experience with this guy.

“Hey! Take a picture super quick!” I shouted to one of my travel mates, and she snapped it as I quickly hovered my arm behind the kangaroo like two buddies just hanging out.

The kangaroo leaned back and seemed to grow in height a bit. “Woah! Look at this guy now!” I stood up watching in amazement. “He’s just like balancing on his tail right now!” I said pointing to the kangaroo.

All the Australians began flailing, “GET AWAY FROM THE KANGAROO JAYME!! STEP AWAY FROM THE KANGAROO!!”

Freaked at the sudden change in tone, I jumped back from the kangaroo and retreated back to my group. It slowly lowered down onto it’s feet, eyeballing me like we were no longer bros. Apparently, when kangaroos balance on their tail, their about to kick with their hind legs. And kick HARD.

“We’re cool! We’re cool!” I said with my hands up, still gradually stepping away, my heart picking up the reality of the situation and starting to race. “My bad, man!” I said as he hopped away. I turned back to the group and asked my friend “Please tell me you at least got that picture, ya?”

At these Vipassana meditation courses, your solo time is so crucial to rest because of all the hard work you’re doing when you’re awake. We go to bed around 10 and the wake up bell chimes at 4am. There’s a few breaks throughout the day for breakfast, lunch and evening tea and perhaps a nap if you are efficient with your time, but shit this bedtime stretch is when you really need to get your ass to sleep.

The irony of battling the thoughts spiking through my mind lecturing myself about the importance of sleep is this was actually a crucial time to implement my practice into real life.

This whole practice is about being present with the moment, accepting whatever is happening without any aversion and craving.

For instance — if I sit here going “Ugghh I don’t want to be so wired right now! I hate this! I want this insomnia to go away! Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!” I am feeding into aversion. I am not accepting that in this moment, my insomnia is present. I am allowing what is not to fester into my brain and cause turbulance inside of myself. I am not at peace.

If I sit here going “I wish I was asleep! I wish I felt exhausted! I want to be tired right now! I want to be well rested for tomorrow!” This is all feeding into craving. This deep longing for something other than what currently is, which also alters my present moment, fueling me with additional discomforts, and wrecks any potential comfort I may be able to find with the present moment. I am not at peace.

They work hand-in-hand. It’s not aversion OR craving. It’s both. I don’t want what is while actively wanting what isn’t.

I practice meditation, in the courses and at home, to strengthen these tools for when I’m in the real world. Sitting on my cushion is like doing interval training before a big race. That’s why it is called my practice and not my performance. The more I practice my ability to observe these sensations in my body, discomfort, pain, aches, heat, cold, without reacting to them, the better I’m able to sit through the fact that my body wants to play and I need to go the fuck to sleep before this damn 4am gong goes off.

The antsiness in bed is taking my practice and implementing it into real life. Eventually this reality seeps into my brain once I run out of ways to distract myself. “I guess this is part of it” I whisper outloud as I finally throw in the towel and get to work.

I lie on my bed and close my eyes. I begin to scan my body. I feel the tightness in my shoulders. I feel the ants running up and down the inside of my legs begging me to run. I don’t clench my fist in frustration. I don’t well up and cry at the present moment being what I don’t want it to be. I soften my heart a bit and accept. I focus on the space directly below my nose and immediately above my lip. I feel the microscopic hairs move about as I breathe in…breathe out…

When my mind begins to relax more I return to my body scans.

When my mind starts to take off again, I return to focusing on my breath.

I alternate between these two practices until eventually that 4am gong vibrates throughout the halls of the dorm.

Still energized, yet less angry and distraught, I make my way to the meditation hall.

It hasn’t been a passive happening, though.

I don’t have two kids because we decided we wanted kids and we snapped our fingers to get them.
No…I wish it were that easy.

I don’t have a house that feels like a home because I squeezed my eyes shut and pleaded with the universe “Oh please, please, please let us live in an inviting, inspiring and warm dwelling.”
No…I wish it were that simple.

I don’t have strong, impactful relationships because I trusted others would show up the way I wanted or needed.
No…I wish it were that straightforward.

I don’t have constant writing opportunities opening up to me because others read my words and have flocked to my corner of the internet.
No…I wish it were that straight forward.

The truth is, I had to completely fall apart.
I bled and collapsed like a building in the heart of war.
Rubble tumbled out of my gut, down my legs, as ash erupted from my eyes and mouth.
I lived for years as a pile of debris, knowing eventually I would have to rebuild.

I knew it would take time.
It needed to take time.

I have two kids because I let my desire of wanting grow larger than my complicity of not having.
I didn’t let the blood cascading down my legs hold me back.
I didn’t let the incisions in my abdomen rewrite the future I wanted.
I didn’t let the urns I’d pour my children into make me reconsider.
I knew there were two spirits out there that needed me as their mother.

I have a home that welcomes creativity, strangers, laughter and vulnerability because I’ve prioritized slowly making corners of our space reflect an environment that feels safe, enlightening and playful.
I’ve allowed the time to slowly chip away as needed.
The whole house doesn’t need to be painted in a day. I can paint that cabinet during nap time.
I didn’t rush to billionaire-owned outlets to create my vision in a quick timeframe.
I envisioned what I wanted, and then I met my neighbors. I talked with strangers at the park. I asked the grocer “How is your day?” with sincerity.
These actions evolved into relationships, which over time transformed into “I know someone who…” and next thing you know, we’re driving to pick up our dream patio set.

I have a strong circle of admirable friends that are hilarious, reliable, vulnerable, and present.

I found this unfold the more I stepped into these traits myself. The more I checked in on others, the more others check in on me. The more I surprised people with silly gifts, the more tiny packages arrived on my front porch. The more I reached out to people on their own challenging anniversaries, the more they reached out to me on my own.

I keep landing writing opportunities, meetings with literary agents, and interviews with activists because I decided to no longer hide. I’ve chosen the discomfort of becoming like glitter — throwing myself in front of everyone and clinging to them, catching the sun and sparkling in their periphery as a constant reminder until a phone call is scheduled, an article is accepted or a meeting is confirmed.

I hid for a very long time.
I hid myself.
I hid my story.
I hid my ability to dream. I even hid it from myself.
I knew there was no “going back” to who I used to be.
But I understood in time I would find my way forward to this new version of myself I was excited to know.

I have two incredibly wholesome, wonderful children.
I have a home where others feel they can exhale as they walk through the door.
I have relationships that are genuine and grounded in compassion and respect.
I have a writing career that is taking off at the speed of light.

It didn’t always feel like it, but I knew some day I would get to “the other side” of all of our hardships.
I miss what (and whom) we have lost along the way.
I cherish what we have cultivated thus far.
I can’t wait to see what the next few years deliver us.

✨ Abundance mode: Activated. ✨

I’d continue down, following the road as it hooked to the right and ahead of me laid the biggest obstacle before my final destination. I’d breathe deeply as I approached hill after hill. Sweating on the ups and enjoy a break on the downs. Once I made it to the hook, I was scot free. This is where I would pull out my Camel Turkish Royals if I was lucky, my Marlboro Lights if I wasn’t, or Marlboro Red One Hundreds if I was really going through a tough time and wanted to beat myself up. I was a young teen that was convinced I was an adult, and this was just my daily break to get away from it all. One of the few places I would tell my parents I was going to walk to and they wouldn’t raise an eyebrow at me. It was in the neighborhood and it was close. So off they’d let me wander.

After the last downhill, the road started to flatten out. Ahead I saw the abandoned playground. I don’t know if abandoned is the right word. I’m not entirely sure playgrounds can be abandoned. But the basketball hoops had no nets. The court was filled with cracks and holes. The slide was filled with graffiti both on the inside and the outside with declarations of who had kissed there, X’s through who had broken up, drawings of dicks, peace signs, and your mom jokes. I climbed up to the top of the playground and sat on the platform just outside of slide. I pulled a piece of aluminum foil out of my bag and fiddled around with it until it was shaped like the first letter of my name, with a hollowed out inside. I’d pull out a crumbled up piece of paper that had a nug of weed inside and broke it up into smaller pieces, placing the smaller pieces into my makeshift pipe. After it was full enough to my likeness, I’d put the paper away so my weed wouldn’t blow away and grab my lighter. I’d bring the pipe to my mouth, watch the plant turn red as I inhaled, and inhale so sharp and fierce like the aluminum was screaming at me “Why the fuck are you inhaling aluminum!?” And then I would exhale.

I’d repeat this a few more times then put everything away. I’d pull out my pocket journal and write about whatever was on my mind. Then I’d put everything away. Slide down the slide. And walk back to the road. Up and down the hills. Hooking to the left. Back to the sidewalk. Cross over to my street. Up the road. Back up my driveway. And back to my house.

“But I don’t know where the lid is!” He said.

“Well, did you look?”

“Yeah I looked right here and it’s not there.”

I smiled and rolled my eyes. Sometimes it blows my minds the things we need to teach kids; the things we don’t think twice about but they still need guidance on.

“Let me teach you how to look for something, bud.” I said, and his eyes perked up. He always loved our little life-skills micro-sessions.

“Your eyes are one of many tools when it comes to looking for something.” I began, sitting down on the floor next to him, placing things around us — a shoe, a ball underneath a cup, another marker. “We can look with our eyes and see things simply as they appear. But sometimes,” I picked up the cup with the ball underneath it, “we need to use our hands to move stuff around to help us find what we’re looking for. Sometimes, things aren’t always hiding in clear sight.”

“Here stand up with me,” The lecture continued as we held hands and stood up together, “You can also use other parts of your body to help you find things. Did you know your toes can help you?” He laughed, looking at his toes as he wiggled them. “My toes??”

“Yeah dude! Like right now, I can’t see what’s up on that shelf — can you?”

“No, I can’t!” He said, excited about where this was going.

“But if we stand on our tippy toes…” He and I each levitated as we struggled to balance on the tippiest points of our toes. “I don’t know about you, but I still can’t see up there.” I said, laughing. I came back onto my heels and tickled him. His giggles are always infectious.

“We can also crouch down onto the ground!” I continued, getting onto my knees and bringing my head to the floor. “Sometimes, we can put our heads on the floor like this,” he followed suit, “and seeing things from this new angle give us a new perspective, helping us to find what we’re looking for!”

“Mama!!” he sat up quickly pointing to the couch. “I found it! I found the marker cap! It was under the couch the whole time!” I matched his excitement and we shuffled over to the couch to grab it.

He reached under the couch but his arm wasn’t quite long enough. “Can you get it for me?” he asked. “Totally bud!” I said, smiling, as I lightly scrunched my fingers through his hair.

I reached under the couch trying to grasp the marker cap but my hand grabbed a ball instead. “What is this doing under here?!” I held it up to Seamus, “My ball!!” he shouted. I reached under the couch again, and this time my hand palmed a wooden train toy. “Bro!” I shouted as I pulled the toy out, “Why is your train under the couch!?” a playful smirk danced across my face. His eyes lit up with glee. “My train!!” he squealed. And added it to his growing collection of treasures-from-under-the-couch. Loads of belly laughs and a mountain of toys later, we finally snagged that damn marker cap.

“Mama! We did it! We looked for the marker cap with our whole bodies! And we found all of these other things!!” He looked around at his rewards of our hard effort.

He started to play with the train, but suddenly stopped. He got up, grabbed the marker cap, and put it back on his marker. Lesson learned.

The drive south reminded me of the last long drive south we had a week prior. Solemnly driving home, John and I hand-in-hand as we breathed through our silent tears. My hand on my belly above our dead baby while his healthy twin brother wiggled away inside of me.

This drive we sat the exact same, tears and all. The wound was still too raw. My belly still freshly scabbed from the procedure.

In the lobby of the eye doctor, we looked at various glasses, trying on all the different personalities we could become. Do I want to be studious? Maybe eccentric? We giggled with each other as we tried on the different pairs until we were individually called to the back. John went first. About ten minutes later they called me next.

After a round of eye tests, the nurse left telling me my doctor would be in soon. I sat in the dark and silent room as unease crept into body like cigarette smoke. Dark doctor’s office had become a place of concern for me. This is where bad news arises. This is where lives change for the worse. I assured myself nothing bad would happen. This was just a routine eye check up. There’s nothing to be worried about.

With a tap on the door my doctor walked in with his aide. He looked at me, “Hey there, Jayme! How are you doing?” Then his eyes moved to my round belly, and smiled. “Ahhh yes! The twins! How are those boys doing!?” He asked with excitement as he pulled up his round stool on wheels.

My heart zapped like I had accidentally brushed my hand against an electric fence. I acted like I didn’t hear the second part of his question. “Oh, I’m doing alright — how are you?” I asked.

“No, the twins!” He said pointing to my belly, “I asked how the boys are doing!” I felt like time paused for a moment while I debated my options. Do I keep it to myself and say something generic? Or do I tell the truth? I didn’t want to hide Killian from the world…

“Umm…” my voice cracked as I began. I cleared my throat. I acted like I was looking at him when really I was looking near his temple off to the side, unable to make eye contact. “We, umm, we lost one of the boys.” My tears found their way to my eyes like they’d been summoned. “Last week. We drove to Colorado to try to save him but we weren’t able to.”

For a quick second my eyes met his and it was all too much. The heavy truth sat in that dark, cold room with us. The tears tried to peak over one another to see the doctor’s reaction, but instead stumbled out of my eyes and down my cheeks. “I — I’m sorry.” I blurted out, wiping away the evidence of my sorrow. Why the fuck am I the one apologizing? I fidgeted with my shirt between my fingers.

“Oh my goodness…” he said. “No, I’m the one who’s sorry.” The moment of silence felt like a week and I wanted to get out of there. He continued on with the rest of my visit; the weight of my dead child resting on top of all of us like a dense fog. He spoke with sandpaper in his throat, struggling to make our visit feel casual and routine — too casual for the truth that lay limp between us. We never spoke of the boys or my pregnancy again.

For my sixth birthday, my parents walked me to the back room of our house with my sister. There were several huge presents in the room and I couldn’t believe they were all for me!! “No…” my parents said, “I know it’s a bit confusing, but these are for each of us. We’re going to let you open yours first, and then we’ll do the rest.” I opened my gift and it was my very own suitcase!! My parents and sister opened their gifts and they had gotten suitcases too! “Oh! And there’s one more downstairs, too! Should we go check?” “Yes!!” I screamed in excitement.

We ran downstairs and I didn’t see anything in the main area. I looked around, feeling confused. “Hmmm,” my dad said. “I could have sworn I left it here…” trying to hide the smirk peeking through on his face. “Do you think you left it in Aaron’s room?” My mom asked. We walked to the back of the basement and I opened the door to reveal Aaron sitting on his bed with his own new suitcase sitting next to him! I screamed and jumped into his arms crying, overwhelmed by the excitement. He held a sign asking if I wanted to go to Colorado! What?? “That’s right! We need to get packed! Our flight leaves tomorrow!”

The airport and airplane was so exciting! I felt like I had stepped into another magical world of all new sounds and buttons and customs. I beamed the whole time. On the flight, my mom let me order a ginger ale, my first time ever having one, and I fell in love! It’s still my go-to beverage on airplanes to this day.

As we drove through the mountains heading to our hotel, I got nauseous and threw up in an empty McDonald’s bag in the back of our rental van. “Must be altitude sickness.” my dad said. “Sick!? I don’t want to be sick!” I cried. “Oh you’ll be fine. It’s not that kind of sickness. Just drink a bunch of water!” my mom chimed in.

In an attempt to cheer me up, my parents unbuckled me and sat me up front on my mom’s lap as we drove a long, windy stretch of Colorado road. Every once in a while a tumbleweed blew across the road. My p

arents would shout “Oh no! Oh no! Watch out, tumbleweeds! Don’t do it!”, concerned about their suicidal tendencies. My dad would adjust the steering wheel towards the tumbleweed with our van and all five of us shouted in pretend despair when another one would go under the tire. My mom moved me over to my dad’s lap so I could help him avoid the tumbleweeds – “They have so much life to live!” We all howled in laughter, forgetting about the soppy bag of vomit I left in the back seat.

We stayed in Estes Park and the view was epic. We went horseback riding and I was too afraid to ride on a horse by myself. I sat with my mom behind my sister Ashli’s horse. We laughed the whole ride as Ashli’s horse farted and dropped dookies every few steps. “Man, your horse sure is full of shit, Ashli!” my mom called ahead.

“A mountain lion! I saw a mountain lion!” My sister exclaimed. We all looked around, seeing nothing but rocks and trees and dirt. “What did it look like?” my mom shouted back. She proceeded to explain what a lion, not a mountain lion, looks like. “Oooh…yeah you totallllly saw a mountain lion!” They responded, tickled by her child-like imagination.

One night, we went to the outside hot tub. It was a new moon and the stars stretched across the sky as if god herself had accidentally spilled a bottle of glitter. It began to snow and I remember thinking this must be a dream! How can something cold happen while I’m in something so hot! And I don’t even feel cold!

Our last morning we saw a herd elk – HUNDREDS of them – from our balcony. There were so many, the hotel employees told us we had to delay our ride back to the airport. It was Colorado law that we could not force the elk to move in any way. My parents had fake conversations with the elk, my mom asking them questions as if they were residents of the area. “Oh! Nice to see you today! How was your night last night?” There was one elk all by itself off to the side that the group seemed to look to. My dad created a voice for him and made up dialogue as if he were the elk addressing the entire herd.

I remember not wanting to go home. I felt if we stayed in Colorado forever, Aaron might stay with us forever too. It was too perfect out here. There was no fighting. Aaron didn’t have to leave in the middle of it. The mountains were unbelievable to look at. Maybe the elk will never unblock our path… I hoped with every ounce of my being.

It was Mother’s Day weekend and we wanted to avoid the boozy brunches and the expectation that we need to run away from our children. We wanted to write our own script. Mother’s Day can be about discomfort, lessons, growth and beauty. Every lesson we can learn from the roots that trip our steps and the ticks we have to pry out of our children’s buttcheeks.

These were somewhat new friends of ours, but ones we bonded to deeply and quickly. The type that enters a relationship saying “let’s bypass the bullshit and let me show you who I truly am and what I deeply believe,” allowing the relationship to feel decades old. The type where you understand the message of a subtle look on their face before you even learn their eye color. I still don’t know their eye colors, but I do know what they are most afraid of, what makes them come alive, and the gentle mottos that get them through the day to day of parenting in 2026.

This weekend solidified an unspoken pact. That we show up for each other messily. You stop by my house for dinner unexpectedly and don’t comment on the piles of clean clothes by the front door. You can drop off your kid to play at my house and not mind the dishes overpiling the sink. I might be behind on my work, and even my text message responses to you, but I am not behind on my recognition of all the hard work you pour into this life with such fire and intention.

On this camping trip, we were able to introduce them to the subtle tricks that make camping easier on us. Our “kitchen kit” that has its own plates, silverware, cooking gear, paper towels and more, so that when we choose to go camping on a whim, we just need to grab this container and throw it in the van along with our tent and a backpack (and probably 100 pounds of stuffed animals if our oldest is paying close enough attention).

At night there was no pressure to stay up later than any of us wanted to. We were all beat, and our nervous systems were preparing for the howling of our sleeping children asking us to cuddle them back to sleep. It was a no-pressure, no-expectations sort of trip. The kind our hearts needed.

Our last morning of the trip, we had cake for breakfast, watercolor painting for dessert and tarot card pulls before shifting gears to head home. One of the parents tended the kids while the rest of us packed up the site. We all managed to head out just before the inevitable breakdowns occurred. The slow drive out of the park lulled all of the exhausted kids to sleep. Their scabbed knees and dirty fingernails, a souvenir for this time we got to spend together, celebrating the ones who carried them independently for nine months. Our hearts, though drained from the adventure, felt rested in the new sense of community we were building with one another.

It’s one of my favorite summertime memories — sitting on my childhood roof and watching my fellow hoodrat neighbors put on their own private, illegal display. You’re not allowed to shoot off fireworks unpermitted in St. Louis, but everyone does it anyway, the same way everyone drives around with expired tags on your car. The cops don’t give a shit.

I sat up there and watched as the brothers next door crowded around the mortar tubes, setting up their next round of colorful explosions. It was electrifying, sitting high in the sky as they would explode just above me, the embers extinguishing before they ever got to me. I’d reach for them, wanting to “Oooh” and “Awww” people in the same way with my own bursts of excitement and inspiration that I wanted to bring to the world.

Maybe if I could just touch them as they dazzled in front of me, I would glow just as bright. People wouldn’t be able to brush me off, then! I wasn’t some dumb young kid who knew nothing! I knew it wasn’t that hard to love people, the way my elders wanted me to believe. I knew that helping each other was a natural way of doing things. I was sick of the lectures of “That’s just not the way the world works,” thrown at me from those who have grown old, grumpy and cold. I could sparkle, you know. We all could.

They lined up the next firework and it whizzed into the air, twirling like a dancer and singing like a bird ready to fly right out of here. I sat up in awe as the colors of the rainbow erupted in front of me. A rogue spark from the firework lands on my leg and I jump in excitement from the burn. The adrenaline. My excitement for an entire life I had yet to live was ahead of me, ignited so brightly I was about to combust.

I can carry myself now. I can reinvest in what makes me come alive simply because it’s what I want to do. “You can let the world in and let them really see what it’s like through your eyes,” my body relaxes at this permission.

No more hiding. We’re all dying for connection, so why limit access? I’m ready to wrap my heart up with a bow and start handing it to everyone I talk to again. I miss that kinda love. Where you assume the best of everyone and the world radiates back at you.

My story hardened me for so long because I needed to survive.
And I did it. I survived.

I can soften and open now. It’s safe.
I’m safe.
And I’m ready.

I’m allowed to feel it all and still see the world through love.

Important note: The following is a journal entry from September 2025. This was written the day I got help and have been on SSRI’s ever since. Things are significantly better now. (Trigger warning: mention of suicidal ideation.)

I have multiple suicidal thoughts, every single day, and have for months.

These aren’t thoughts of “I want to”. It’s more of — Seamus will be reacting about something, or Dela will start crying/whining about something, and an intrusive visual of me putting a gun to my head and pulling the trigger plays in my mind and I feel a tiny smidge of relief when that bullet dislodges.

All day long I picture myself taking my life. Always with a gun.
I don’t want it to happen.
They just pop up and drift away and I convince myself this is normal and temporary and won’t be like this forever while my nervous system deploys a finale of fireworks underneath my skin and my shoulders harden like a metal dam. I’m so exhausted.

Thank god we don’t own a hand gun.

Several times a week I pause and watch our family together and picture what these moments would look like without me. I wonder if they would be okay. I wonder how badly it would affect the kids. I wonder if John would crumble and become unable to parent the children effectively and give them the support they need. I wonder who would step up to help him. I wonder how invasive my mom would be, making it all about her, demanding she deserves a slice of her grandchildren because it’s her last connection to me. I wonder how she would totally ignore the fact that she’s been a consistent threat to what little mental stability I’m clinging on to. I wonder if she’d be able to see how she has been a consistent bomb deploying whenever she’s bored or Fox News tells her to be activated about something, while I stumble along bleeding through my healing journey.

“I don’t want these thoughts to happen,” I choked out, finally confiding to John as my tears cascaded down my face, all over my clothes, the floor. I don’t like picturing my kids emotional and confused about why I’m gone. I don’t like picturing John struggling to keep it together for them. I don’t like what I would leave behind. I don’t want these thoughts. I want them to stop.

Last spring, one of my oldest friend’s husband, committed suicide. I told John how a fucked up part of me feels grateful that he did. Grateful that I was able to rush to the hospital with her, sit with her, be with her at his celebration of life and stay the night with her that evening in her large, empty home afterwards. Grateful that John’s given me the flexibility to rush out to her house or to a spontaneous lunch date when an unexpectedly terrible day creeps up on her and she doesn’t want to feel alone.

I told John the same for our neighbor mourning her oldest friend who intentionally jumped off a balcony at a family vacation. Holding her in her garage after she found out. Bringing her ice cream. Giving her permission to leave the block party early.

I told John that if it wasn’t for those catastrophes, who knows if I’d still be here. Being able to witness how much these actions have affected other people so immensely has grounded me to fight like hell to stay here instead of just giving in.

I feel like a disgusting friend for taking their pain and morphing it into selfish gratitude.

I told John how I just have to stick it out and see what happens because we accumulated so much debt with all of the various types of therapies we’ve done since losing Killian, since the hemorrhage, since my mom callously chose her toxic political identity over her family while he and I were struggling to breathe. I told him we can’t afford another specialized therapist. He reassured me this type of help I would need would fall under insurance. I might be able to feel safe.

I told him I’m terrified to take medicine and what it might do to me. He rubbed my arms, staring into my eyes telling me we can figure it out, that we’ll find something that works. More tears came as I thought about the possibility of not having these thoughts at all. I didn’t even think that was a possibility.

I told him I felt stupid and naive to think that things would be “a walk in the park” after Dela’s birth because we weren’t simultaneously juggling the loss of her sibling upon her arrival. I didn’t almost die on her birthday. Everything was happy. Everyone was healthy. Although this time around my mom chose to exit my life.

When I was postpartum with Seamus, drowning in PTSD while caring for a new child, I fought like hell to keep her a part of the family, which that itself nearly killed me in its own way, and after so much exhausting effort, it seemed like she came around. It seemed like family, connection, and love was a priority of hers again.

Again, she approached my postpartum experience with her weapons. Picking fights. Poking raw wounds. Screaming at my child until he started crying all because he wore his favorite dress.

But instead of pleading for her once again to set her ammunition down, I let her walk away. I didn’t have it in me to beg her to love us and respect us all over again. I couldn’t lose myself again, trying to get her to approach her own family with grace and compassion.

I grieve all the things she could have been – a supportive mom who lived a short drive away, who would babysit when we needed a hand or help tidy the house during those moments where we just can’t keep up with the mess; a mom who would hold me as I cried, while I struggled to find the balance between grieving the son I lost and raising the one I saved. A fun and present grandmother who would swoop the kids up and take them to the park or library, maybe surprise them at pick up at school, or join us for their performances or sports.

But I can’t deny the turbulence is significantly less than last time around. Maybe it’s better she’s not around.

Everything seemed happier and peaceful and safe this time. I thought that I wouldn’t fall victim to a mind that’s always been determined to take me out of this life. How could I have been so dumb. You’re not dumb, he says. I know I’m not dumb, but my brain keeps insisting I am.

I do all of the things to “gentle parent”. But then my brain explodes and emotional quills shoot out from under my skin damaging anyone near me who my brain decides is a threat.

It’s okay to be upset Seamus, I got you. But no mama! I want the t-rex costume! OH. MY. GOD. No, we’re walking out the door right now and I’m telling you right now you’re not going to play outside with your friends when we get home! Gun to head. *Pop. Pop.*

Mama I have to go potty! Okay well you know how to use the toilet. Mama!! I’m going potty on the floor!! I need new underwear!! Wha—Seamus! Why—uugghhh—Why would you do that??”

Goddammit Jayme stop it! What the fuck is wrong with you! Why are YOU doing this?? *Pop. Pop. Pop.*

The whole time my mouth is moving there’s a part of me locked away in a cage going “NO! What are you doing!? I don’t want to say that! Look at his face! You’re not helping him! What is wrong with you!?”

What is wrong with me??

I fought so hard to have Seamus in my life and now I can’t stand him. I love him so much but anytime he’s near me I want to scream and pull my hair out and lock myself into another room. He’s done nothing wrong. It’s me. It’s me. It’s me. I am what’s wrong. I don’t want to feel this way towards him! I love him so much!

I feel like a terrible parent.
You’re not a supportive mother. *Pop.*

I feel like a terrible partner.
You’re not doing enough to help John around the house. *Pop*

I feel like a terrible person.
You’re making their loss all about you?! *Pop*

I don’t want to feel like this anymore.
But I want to be here so badly.
I want to see who my kids become.
I want to help them build a beautiful life.

We wanted a huge family more than anything, but I saw a quote several weeks ago that feels carved into my heart like initials on a tree. “Maybe your child doesn’t need another sibling. Maybe they just need a healthy mother.”

I told John I used to think if we had more kids it would kill me. Between the emergency surgeries I’ve needed, the postpartum hemorrhage, all of the things. I never thought I would survive another one. Now I’m worried if we did it again, the pregnancy might be fine, but I won’t survive the postpartum side of things. “I don’t think I can survive another round of this…” I wailed and wailed and wailed against the back door, my arms around my abdomen as I released all of the grief at this realization that what we have may be all we have and allowing that grief to just live for a moment instead of forcing gratitude on top of it to hide it.

“You need to be getting more sleep,” John said, worry oozing out of his eyes as he tried his best to hold me with his gaze. “I know after the kids go to bed is the best time for you to get work done, but we’ll figure something else out. With Dela’s teething keeping you up at night, you need to be making sure you’re getting sleep. No more work at night.”

I told him how I need to be told to do things right now. Permission isn’t enough. I’ve been trying like hell to show up for myself lately, or even reframe it in my head like me working on myself is for the family, but when I’m the only one holding myself accountable it isn’t enough. I’ve been telling him for weeks that I need him to grab me by the shoulders and demand I work out or write or go for a walk or go to sleep. I feel so lazy. I don’t know what’s wrong with me but I’m just not a reliable accountability partner right now. I hate that I need something external to me to help with this but I can’t do it. I’ve been trying for months and I can’t do it! Another wave of sorrow releases out of my body. A confession I needed to say out loud instead of keeping trapped inside of me. It’s okay if I need help.

We make a plan. I go to bed when the kids go to bed. I’m allowed to read, but no computer, no phone, no work. Either read, or sleep.

We do a 45 minute dog walk/stroller walk with Nymeria and Dela when we get home after school drop off. After that, I get time to journal while John’s with Dela.

We’ll start buying easy-to-make meals so I make sure I’m getting actual nutrition in the middle of the day, instead of my “deconstructed quesadillas” (aka a tortilla and a cheese stick).

We’ll find time for more movement soon, let’s start with these.
We’ll find time for meditation, soon, I promise.
We’ll find a professional I can talk to and maybe try some medication.
There’s hope.

I don’t know why I was so convinced that this is just how it is and things will change and get better.
I didn’t realize I was basically “thoughts and prayers”-ing my way through this.

We can take action.
I can get help.
I can be a better mom, the parent I want to be.
It’s okay if we don’t have more kids.
That doesn’t need to be decided right now.

It’s going to be okay.
I’m going to be okay.

“Gretzky takes the puck up center ice…”

A smile widened across my father’s face as he extended his arms outwards, tapping his heel to the ground like a showman at the end of a musical number. “And we’re off!”

He removed clothes from the dryer and hung them on a metal pipe running along the ceiling. I sat in an empty laundry basket pretending to be a racecar driver, my back up against one side of the basket, my feet touching the other end. My toes poked through the holes when I’d push each foot down pretending to hit the gas or the brake. I held a pretend steering wheel in my hands and tilted my body left to right.

As the announcers would shout out different names my dad would challenge me.

“MacInnis — what number is he?” he’d ask.

“Number 2! Mom’s favorite player!” I’d excitedly respond.

“Good job! Now, what position does he play?”

“He’s a defenseman!”

“Awesome!”

The radio shouted in the background “Blocked by Fuhr!”

My dad turned to me “And what’s Fuhr, our goalie,’s first name?” pointing at me to encourage a quick response.

“Ummm….ummmm….” The names of our players darted through my mind left and right like blades cutting into the ice. “..Grant…?” I hesitated.

“That’s right!” He shouted, leaning over to give me a high five.

The announcer exclaimed “GOAALL by Hull!”

My dad and I hooted and hollered. He leaned over to high five me again and we kissed each other on the cheek, a tradition of him and my moms.

Before my dad could ask I rattled off, “Brett Hull! Number 16! He’s on offense!”

My dad raised his eyebrows looking impressed. “Fantastic! But instead of ‘on offense’ do you remember what the actual position is called?”

Again, my thoughts banged along the inside of my brain, until the answer hit me, like players crashing into the boards. “He’s a forward!”

“Right again!” he said, beaming with pride. He took the last bit of clean laundry out and opened the wash. He took the damp clothes out and put them into the dryer, one by one.

A whistle from the radio and the voice telling us “Oooh, that’s offsides!”

My dad gave me a look implying he wanted me to explain what offsides meant. But embarrassment started to settle in my chest. “I…I don’t understand offsides…” I admitted.

He smiled and began explaining to me what offsides meant. I’m now 35 and I still need him to explain offsides to me. It’s one of those things that I think I understand and as soon as I go to explain it, every bit of understanding gets zapped from me.

But there’s something about my dad explaining things to me that he loves. The excitement shines through his eyes. He talks loudly with his hands like he’s still a teenager on stage in his high school play. I love when anyone explains anything they’re passionate about. It’s an energy I wish I could bottle and keep with me whenever I need a hint of inspiration, excitement, joy.

He tossed a dryer sheet into the machine. Closed the door. Turned the knob over to the correct setting, that metal sound of gears turning is a sound that will always live in my body. A noise that when I think of it transports me back to that basement. Back to that laundry room. Back to those moments with my dad listening to Blues Hockey on the radio.

“I mean…yeah, I do see your point,” He said, checking his clipboard for what was next on his checklist to command. “but a rule is a rule. I don’t make ‘em. I just have to enforce them.”

“Well you’re enforcing a bullshit rule.” I said, dramatically emptying a box of bandaids, preparing to cover my body.

Costco was a mostly great company to work for. The pay and benefits were phenomenal even if you were a part time employee. Most of my coworkers were cool, although there was the occasional 70-year old creep that would work the exit door and comment to me about wanting to see me in a wet tshirt contest.

A lot of people who work at Costco have been there for most of their working lives. They started there at 18 and were treated so well they’d stay long past their 40s.

A lot of them also had tattoos, but since they had been in the ecosystem for so long they had intentionally got them in easy-to-cover-up places. It was kind of shocking how many employees would have their legs and backs fully tatted but you would never know. Everyone seemed to adapt to the rule rather than challenge it.

I was a hard worker, going to whatever department they asked me to, pushing carts in extreme heat or icy conditions, hopping on a register the second they needed me.

But at a business like Costco, tattoos were looked down upon. They were to be hidden. No one must know that you are a human who likes art or color or self-expression or free will.

I needed to wear long sleeves and use bandaids and bandages to cover up the ones on my wrists, fingers and ear. The one in my fucking ear. Because god forbid a cashier places a case of butter in your cart and you are forced to see plain ass roman numerals hidden in their ear. The horror!

I was the exact same hard worker regardless of what decorations I had on my body. If anything, forcing me to cover up my tattoos made me a worse employee.

The bandaids on my fingers would constantly get stuck on products, lose their stickiness, get ripped off. They were always getting in the way, slowing things down. Now you tell me – when you’re buying groceries, do you really want to see the cashier who is handling your food has bandaids that are peeling off and flapping around?

The rule was you could have tattoos, but you needed to have them covered up, and the easiest solution in their eyes were bandaids or medical tape. I sought out the gaudiest looking bandaids and medical tape I could find. Loud designs, bright colors.

Management hesitated, but said it was allowed. “Okay, sounds good.” I’d say, “There’s some other designs and colors I liked too! They’re even more vibrant and out there than my tattoos they’re covering!”

I began wearing the most plain, revealing-but-still-appropriate clothes I could find — a white short sleeve polo and blue shorts, the uniform of a Catholic school boy. Aside from my well-kept clothes, I looked like I was coming from a war zone. Bandages, wraps, medical sleeves up and down my arms and legs.

I nudged my boss in the ribs as I clocked in. “Don’t want to be a distraction with these tattoos, ya know?”

CHALLENGE: Find 20 minutes of uninterrupted time. Sit down to write. Start a 20 minute timer. Follow the prompt: A rule that didn’t make sense to you.

Then share with me in the comments or privately! I’d love to see what you come up with!

I clock in.
I have specific things I’m working on.
I’m tracking progress.
There’s intentional, forward momentum.

It feels good.

Writing my story is something that has always brought me a large feeling of fulfillment. I enjoy storytelling. I feel like picking the right metaphors and similes and words that strike just right is like a puzzle to solve. And ya girl over here loves a puzzle!

One of the dozens of jobs I have set for myself when working on my memoir, is writing publicly again. Not just Instagram or Substack, but publishing articles with large publications.

Since the beginning of this year I’ve been pitching several articles a week to sources all over the country, all on various aspects of my story.

Today, HuffPost officially went live with one of my articles. It stems from a comment a stranger made when I was past due with Dela. He flagged me down just to make the joke “Hey, you sure you don’t have twins in there??”

Some people laugh at this joke.
Some people feel shame over how their bodies have changed so much during pregnancy.
I was swept over with grief, biting back the urge to tell him I’ve had a twin die.

I bring you into the different types of comments John and I have gotten over the years that seem light, harmless, even silly, and let you see the other side of things, how it can actually sting and burn and lift the veil a bit on how we don’t always know the full story.

It also feels a little tone deaf to share this all right now.

This morning, when my article went live, I sent it to my sister, followed with the text:

“How do I share this to my IG story when everyone is talking about our government murdering us”

Part of it just doesn’t feel right.

Why should I add my shadows to a world that feels so dark?

It’s tricky.

But she encouraged me to say just that. To share how it doesn’t feel right.
Just like raising a healthy twin while his identical brother is deceased, it’s okay to live in a reality where both of these things exist at once.

I know the world is heavy right now.

But I also see hope.

How Minneapolis has come together is inspiring.

How my own neighborhood has been stepping up to help one another is wholesome.

And knowing I have two wonderful, beautiful, hilarious and healthy children is the best reminder I have that sunshine will always come after our darkest days.

Working on my memoir. Telling my story. Making people feel things. Getting published.

All of these things bring me so much joy.

I hope in between phone calls to congress, supporting local, helping your neighbor and feeling your understandable rage, you’re able to do one thing today that brings you joy. Don’t let your body forget what joy feels like.

If you have the capacity, I ask that you read my piece for HuffPost. Reading it, sharing it, commenting on it, all of these things help me as I re-grow my writing platform after a 5 year hiatus.

Read Jayme's HuffPost Article

And if you don’t feel like reading it, even clicking on the link helps me a ton. Sending traffic to the article lets them know that people want to read what I write, and it will turn into more opportunities.

I hope you take care of your heart today.
I hope you find time to do something that brings you joy.
I hope you do something that feels like you’re helping one another, helping our country.
I hope you feel love, support, and inspiration.

Thank you for being here and for all of your support. 🫶🏻

PROMPT: Write a brief account about how you tried to achieve some seemingly out of reach task—learning to drive, climbing a mountain, etc.
20- minute free-write.

I never thought I’d be able to complete my yoga teacher training.

I was clawing my way out of my PTSD, desperate for a breath of fresh air desperate to feel like some degree of a version of myself I knew would never exist again.

Long before the metaphorical bombs landed on our lives in succession one after the other after the other, I had signed up for a virtual yoga teacher training course. I didn’t necessarily want to be a teacher. I just wanted to learn more of the how’s, what’s and why’s for when I did it on my own.

It was essentially a month-long course where they gave you 2 whole years to complete. I had 5 months left of my program when I mentioned it to my therapist and said there was no use in even trying to complete it on time.

They challenged me in the warm way they always do.

“What are you talking about?? You have FIVE MONTHS to do this! That is entirely attainable!”

We made a plan on how I could make it work. How I could balance out my life between work and babysitters and help from my husband so I could just sit down and crank it out. I sacrificed family walks and dinners with friends, and believe it or not I allowed myself to turn in assignments I felt were not perfect enough.

Near the end of those 5 months, I not only received a certificate with a couple of weeks to spare, but I also felt stronger, I had established a new strategy for working through my grief and trauma, and I start to feel some hope and possibility re-enter my bones.