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Muddy Puddles and Sunshine
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Muddy Puddles and Sunshine
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Blog Post 2

July 29, 2025

Tiny Hands, Giant Miracles: How One Baby Saved Me From the Fire I Thought Was Love

(A little sarcasm, a lot of healing, and the baby who pieced my soul back together)

Lets talk about those babies- the ones who crash into our lives like tiny tornadoes with pacifiers and healing powers. Whether we begged the universe for them or they showed up uninvited (surprise!), they came. And they saved us from versions of ourselves we didn't even know needed rescuing.

This is about one of those babies. My firstborn. My soul-saver. My accidental lifeline.

Now, I won’t unpack every single messy detail of what led me to him- not because those details aren't important (they are, deeply), but because part of growth is learning which stories are yours to tell and which belong to someone else. I’ve learned I can share my truth without exposing someone else’s shame. If this story hits something deep in side you, please know- I see you. I was you. And I'm one call, text, or ugly-cry away from walking beside you.

So, here we go…

I met a boy.

Not the kind you bring home to mom and bake cookies with. No. This one came with all the red flags I chose to ignore in favor of “bad boy” vibes and 18-year-old rebellion. We met. We dated. We moved in together way too fast. And just like that, I was deep in a relationship that was emotionally chaotic and financially tragic (I’m talking peanut-butter-out-of-the-jar broke).

He was fascinating… in the way a tornado is fascinating. Destructive but hard to look away from.

And while the world saw a girl “in love,” I was quietly losing pieces of myself. There was abuse- emotional, verbal, physical. Followed by textbook apologies and even more textbook blame. “If you hadn’t…” “Why do you always…” You know the script. I had dreams once- big ones. But somewhere between the gas-lighting and survival mode, they faded. He broke me. Piece by piece.

They say a woman leaves an abusive relationship up to seven times before it sticks. I beat that statistic. I left more than seven times. And every time I swore it was the last- until it wasn't. But the final time? Something shifted. I can’t promise I wouldn't have gone back again… but then I found out I was pregnant.

And everything changed.

Becoming a mom was the only dream I'd held onto through all the storms. It was the one thing I had always known I wanted. And while this wasn't the picture I painted for myself- single, back at my parents’ house, shattered- it was the turning point.

I made a vow that no one- no one- would ever treat my child the way I had been treated.

And then I met him. That tiny, screaming, perfect baby. And just like that, my world shifted again.

It’s wild how one little hand wrapped around your finger can glue the cracks in your soul back together. How the sound of baby giggles and sleepy sighs can drown out years of chaos. How the love you didn't know you had left to give just comes pouring out the second you look into their eyes.

That baby saved me. Not just from him. But from who I was becoming.

Motherhood didn't just give me a title. It gave me purpose. It gave me power. It gave me back to myself.

That’s not the end of the chaotic journey with “the boy.” It was years of fighting- custody battles, child support- I was still growing. Still fighting to be myself. But that baby- who has since grown into an incredible man- he was, he is, my forever constant. My reminder that as a mother, I will gladly walk through the depths of hell.

So, to all the mamas out there who were pulled out of the dark by someone under 10 pounds (just barely)- whether planned or unexpected- this one’s for you. Your strength isn't just in surviving what came before. It's in choosing to rise. To love. To heal. And to build something beautiful from the rubble.

And to my firstborn- thank you for rebuilding me.

One tiny hand at a time.

Blog Post 3

The Summer We Survived (Barely)

August 3, 2025

It’s been two years since the accident. Since everything changed.

The bruises have faded. The bones have mostly healed. But the pain? It still creeps in… quietly, unexpectedly.

In the scar that aches when the weather shifts. In the anxiety that bubbles when the phone rings late. In the flash of panic every time I hear tires screech.

Two years ago, I thought we were gearing up for a summer of memories- splash pads, cookouts, sun-kissed cheeks, and late-night laughter. Instead, we got steel and gravel and a trauma that tore through everything.

A motorcycle accident. Me and my husband. And in a matter of seconds, life flipped upside down.

Broken bones. Concussions. The physical pain was only the beginning.

I became a patient and a caregiver. Nursing my own body while holding up his. Juggling three kids who still needed rides, snacks, attention, love… while their mom limped through the motions, pretending she wasn't breaking inside.

I was the glue. For my husband, who relied on me for everything from meds to meals. For my kids, who didn't fully understand why everything suddenly felt off. For my home, which didn't pause just because I needed a break.

It was gut-wrenching. And lonely in a way that words don't really touch.

Because while I was the one keeping everyone fed, bathed, and just okay enough to get to the next day… no one asked how I was doing. Not really. I was in the background of everyone's minds- but at the very forefront of everything that needed done.

Our marriage nearly didn't make it. When pain, grief, resentment, and exhaustion all pile on top of love… its hard to find each other in the mess. We fought. We shut down. We questioned everything. And yet somehow- by grace, stubbornness, and something deeper- we’re still here.

But that summer? It took so much from me.

I missed the play dates. The spontaneous girls days. The joy. The laughter. Because I was too busy babysitting broken bones, emotional wounds, and three kids who deserved more than what I had left to give.

And still… I survived. We survived.

That doesn't mean I came out untouched. The scars remain. Some visible. Some hidden so deep they only show up in my silence.

The dust has settled now. The boxes have been checked. The bills got paid. But not everyone was held accountable. Not really. Not in the depth they should have been.

Our lives were turned upside down. And theirs? Unscathed. Unbothered.

Because not everyone plays fair. Not everyone owns their part in someone else’s pain. Some people walk away without a scratch- because they lie, they deflect, they play dirty. And they get to go back to their normal, while we’re left rebuilding from rubble.

But even still… I’m here. Still standing. Still healing. Still learning how to let someone take care of me, too.

So no, that summer didn’t go as planned. But I’m here to tell the story. And that’s something I’ll never stop being grateful for.

Blog Post 4

August 5, 2025

Get Out of Your Own Damn Way

(This one was spontaneous. Completely unplanned. But completely necessary)

Do you ever just wake up and immediately feel the need to hide?

Your mind is already racing with a list of “adventures” you have zero energy or patience for. The bed is calling, tempting you to stay put. Maybe today could be a binge-watch kind of day. Maybe- if were feeling ambitious- we’ll shower, throw on some comfy clothes, skip the makeup, embrace the messy hair, and drink all the coffee while eating all the snacks… from the comfort of home.

Because the voices in your head? They’re loud today.

The “what-ifs” of being around people. The worst-case scenarios playing on repeat. The quiet pull of a mood that wants to ruin everything.

And then… you hear the little voices in the next room. Sleepy giggles. Tiny feet moving way too fast for such an early hour. And you remember the plans. The ones you made for them. The ones you kind of want to run from.

But you don’t.

You pull yourself up. You silence the chaos in your head. You get out of your own damn way.

And wouldn't you know it? The day turns out perfect.

We swam- even though it was chilly. We got though a doctor’s appointment (mostly unscathed) with a quick diagnosis: swimmer’s ear and a mild infection. Stickers were awarded for well’behaved little’s. And we treated ourselves to lunch, milkshakes, coffee (for mom), and way too much sugar to take home.

We laughed. We talked. We held hands. We made memories. All because we didn’t let the hard stuff win.

But here’s the thing I keep wondering:

Why do we let our minds talk us out of joy? Why do we cancel plans we were excited for the day before? Why do we keep letting our thoughts convince us we’re not enough… or that were too much?

Some days, it's okay to stay home. To feel the feels. To rest your soul.

But most days? Most days we need to silence the noise in our heads and get up anyway.

Show up messy. Do the hard things. Make the damn memories. And prove to yourself- again- that you're stronger than the doubt.

You just have to get out of your own damn way.

Blog Post 5

The Over-Prepared-for Babies

August 12, 2025

There are certain prayers you whisper so often, you start to wonder if God put you on mute.

The kind that roll off your tongue at 2 a.m. in the dark, when the world is quiet but your heart is screaming.

The kind that feel so desperate, you’d trade every other wish you’ve ever made just for this one to come true.

We were over-prepared for babies before there were even babies to prepare for. We had the dreams, the names, the nursery Pinterest boards, the quiet conversations about who they might look like, what traditions we’d start, what lullabies we’d sing. And then, month after month, reality came crashing in with the same brutal answer: not this time.

What they don’t tell you when you’re young and imagining your future is how soul-crushing it is to try for years and fail. That each failed month feels like a tiny funeral for the future you thought you were building. That early pregnancy loss can feel like the world’s cruelest magic trick—one moment, everything is glowing with possibility, and the next, it’s gone, and you’re left holding nothing but your own grief.

And grief like that is lonely. Even when you’re surrounded by people who love you, it’s hard for them to understand. They can’t see the dozens of negative tests in your trash can, the silent tears in the bathroom, the way you start avoiding baby showers because they feel like a punch in the gut. They don’t feel the shame you carry like a second skin, whispering failure in your ear every time your body betrays you.

We tried everything.

The calendar tracking. The vitamins. The ovulation kits. The expensive supplements that promised miracles in tiny capsules. And when that didn’t work, we moved on to the big guns—fertility doctors, endless blood draws, ultrasounds at dawn, hormone injections that left bruises across my stomach and hips. Thousands of dollars in treatments, each one carrying its own fragile hope.

And each time, the same outcome: nothing.

I can’t tell you how many nights I lay awake staring at the ceiling, bargaining with God. Promising anything. Begging for a break. Just one more baby. Just one more chance.

When our doctor finally said, “I think you should try somewhere else,” I felt both hope and dread in the same breath. Because starting over meant dragging our already-battered hearts through it all again. But we did. We packed up our hope and our fear and took it to an amazing facility in New York, where the walls were lined with photos of smiling babies who had once been someone’s desperate prayer, too.

We did one round of IVF.

Two embryos implanted.

One little fighter who held on.

The pregnancy was anything but smooth—complications, hospital visits, and more “we’ll just have to wait and see” conversations than my nerves could handle. But then, after all of those years of heartbreak, our baby arrived. Dramatically. Perfectly. Loud enough to let the whole world know they were here, and they were worth everything it took to get them.

If you’re reading this and you’re in the middle of your own fight to become a parent, I want you to know something: I see you. I know the way your heart drops every time someone says “just relax and it will happen.” I know the ache of an empty nursery. I know the weight of hope that feels too heavy to keep carrying.

And I also know this—your story isn’t over yet.

Maybe it’s still being written. Maybe it’s not going to look the way you pictured. But I promise you, the love you have inside you? The kind that survives the tests, the losses, the endless waiting? That’s the kind of love that can move mountains.

And one day, maybe when you least expect it, you’ll find yourself holding the answer to all those years of prayers in your arms.

And it will have been worth every tear. Every shot. Every “no” before the “yes.”

Blog Post 6

The End of Another Summer

August 18, 2025

Another summer has slipped right through my fingers, and somehow I am standing here staring down the back-to-school grind all over again. Fourteen years I’ve been doing this dance- packing backpacks, labeling lunch boxes, and sending my whole heart out the door with a wave and a prayer. You’d think it would get easier. Spoiler alert: It does not.

Every year, the feelings crash in like clockwork- heartbreak, excitement, nervousness, pride. It’s like emotional whiplash for moms. The heartbreak of another summer gone. Because we only get so many of them with our babies. The nervousness of sending them out into the world, hoping they'll be kind and that the world will be kind back. The excitement of watching them bloom into these little people with quirks and personalities that amaze and sometimes terrify me. And then the gut-punch realization that they're just another year closer to not needing me as much.

This year, our baby is wrapping up her very last year of preschool before she joins her big brother at “big school.” Our Sour Patch guy (equal parts sweet and salty) is marching into 3rd grade. And for once, I think this might be the year with the least amount of tears- on his end, at least. My Momma heart? That’s another story.

Because here's the thing- every August I gear up like I’m ready, and then my heart says, “yeah, no, we’re not doing this.” I fear the world won’t be as gentle with them as they deserve. I fear they won’t see their own worth. I fear the day they walk out that door and come home needing me less. And yet, I pray for exactly that.

Because isn't that the point? To raise them to fly? To know they’ll always have a place where love lives, but to also let them soar into whoever they're meant to be. The best part of raising kids is watching them grow up. And the hardest part of raising kids is… watching them grow up.

And today, it all hit a little harder. We put away the summer play clothes. Packed away last year’s too-small, too-worn favorites. Reorganized drawers and hung up all the shiny new school clothes. The sizes are a little bigger. The styles, a little more grown. And my heart? A little more saddened.

They say we only get 18 summers. Eighteen. With every beginning of the school-year hustle, another summer slips into the rear view mirror. Sure, we have millions of memories made. More laughs than tears. Adventures had, and more still to come. But we don't get those summers back. Which means our babies are a little less baby. A little more grown. Their fingers find our hands less often. The tears don't always need us to wipe them away. Their words sound more grown. Their hearts’, still pure. Their innocence, still intact. But they're growing up on us. And no matter how many times we tell ourselves to be ready- we never really are.

And then there's my first baby- my oldest. My proof that time moves faster than our hearts can handle. He’s no longer packing a backpack; he's packing for work. I don't watch him leave in the mornings- he's out the door before I’m even awake- but I watch him come home at night. Tired, but satisfied, building this new life for himself. He doesn't need me in he same way anymore. He doesn't need me to tie his shoes or pack his lunch (though he’d gladly let me pack his lunch). But he still calls when his heart is heavy, or when life hands him a bad day. He still shares pieces of his world with me. He needs me differently now- and I love that. But oh, how I miss those tiny hands. I miss the version of him who hadn't yet learned how unfair the world can be.

I’ve already had my 18 summers with him. He doesn't owe me his time, or his attention, or his summers anymore. But my heart prays he’ll keep giving them anyway.

Are we proud? Beyond words. Are we excited for another year of new adventures and beginnings? Absolutely. Watching our kids grow up is both the hardest and the most amazing thing we’ll ever get to do.

So here's to another year of mixed emotions, tear-streaked cheeks, and the back-to-school grind. May the coffee be strong, the mornings run smoothly (ha!), and may we remember that while they're busy growing up, we’re busy learning how to let go- one school year at a time.

Blog Post 7

The Power of Saying it Out Loud

August 22, 2025

Why I “Overshare” —

I started this blog because writing is my outlet. Truly, give me anything, and I’ll write about it.

The color of the sky? I’ll paint it in words.

The smell of fresh-cut grass or that charged air before a snowstorm? I’ll make you inhale it.

The chaos of raising kids? Buckle up, because I'll drop you right into the middle of my circus.

But the real reason I started? Because my words, my stories, my mess- might also be yours. And if sharing mine helps even one other person feel a little less alone, then my soul is happy.

I’ll gladly walk beside anyone in the depths of their own personal hell and sit with them in the dark until they’re ready to stand again. I’ll also be the loudest cheerleader in your happiest moments. (Fair warning: I have pom-poms and zero shame.) My heart and my soul are happiest when I get to love people through the messy parts and the magical ones.

——————————————————

On “Oversharing” —

Some people think that putting your life out there- warts, scars, and all- is oversharing. They call it attention-seeking, inappropriate, or just plain “too much.” And you know what? That’s fine. They're allowed to keep their stories tucked neatly inside, where no one ever has to see the cracks. They're allowed to not agree with what brings me comfort. We’re not all the same- thank goodness, because one of me is already plenty!

——————————————————

A Conversation That Reminded Me Why —

Recently, a friend reached out while walking through a hell that very few people truly understand. Her story isn't mine to share, but she has been on my heart ever since. We swapped stories. We gave advice. We validated each other’s feelings. And in that moment, we both knew: we weren't alone in our battles.

That’s the whole point! That’s why I write. Not because I think my struggles are bigger than anyone else’s, but because we all need someone in our corner. Someone who lets us fall without judgement, then helps us back up. Someone who sits beside us and says, “Yep, this sucks, but you're not alone in it.”

——————————————————

The Truth About Struggles —

I’ve faced down more struggles in my thirty (okay, thirty-plus….ugh!) years than I care to count. Cancer. Loss. Infertility. Trauma. Chaos. I came out the other side- different, yes. But stronger. Softer in my heart, sharper in my tongue.

I’ve learned to find beauty in the simple things:

  • the way the sky changes color at dusk,

  • the smell of your kid’s hair when they curl into you at the end of a hard day,

  • the sound of their giggles echoing through the house

Those are the moments that matter most. They're the rope you grab when the world is too heavy to carry.

——————————————————

The Advice That Saved Me —

During one of my darkest seasons- staring cancer in the face- I was given advice I’ve never forgotten.

“You’re allowed to sit in this moment and feel it, but you are not allowed to unpack and live here.”

Do I ask “Why me?” sometimes? Of course! And for the record, telling someone, “God only gives us what we can handle,” is… terrible advice! Sometimes the weight is absolutely too much. We don’t magically handle it because we’re strong- we become strong because we don’t have another choice.

And yet… if carrying these battles means someone else never has to? I’ll take them all. I would never wish my pain on another soul. But if my scars can make me the person who sits with you through yours? Then I’ll bear them proudly.

——————————————————

So, Here’s The Truth —

I will over share. I will write about the ugly, the raw, the gritty, and the beautiful. Because someone, somewhere, needs to know they aren't the only one. And if that “someone” happens to be you? Then you’ve landed in the right place.

Welcome. Sit down. Breathe. You don't have to unpack here either, but you sure don't have to walk it alone.

Blog Post 8

August 28, 2025

The Psychotic Cocktail:

Perimenopause + Medically Induced Menopause + Hormones

They don’t warn you that midlife comes with its own amusement park ride- one you never actually bought a ticket for. Perimenopause plus medically induced menopause plus a cocktail of hormones? It’s like strapping into a roller-coaster that’s spinning off its axis… except you’ve lost your seat belt, your footrest, your shoes, and maybe even your hair (what’s left of it, anyway).

The physical side effects? Oh, those are fun. Thinning hair. Weight fluctuations (right after you finally got your weight under control, of course). Random acne. Designer bags under your eyes that no cream can fix. That’s just the stuff the world gets to see. Then there are the hot flashes- straight out of the depths of hell- that leave you sweating from places you didn’t even know had sweat glands (fingertips included). Don’t worry, the inferno only lasts a few minutes, followed by an ice-cold clammy chill that makes you feel both ridiculous and super sexy.

Sleep? A thing of the past. Joints? They ache for sport. But all of that? Manageable. What really breaks me is the mood swings.

One minute I’m ready to throw knives because my husband is breathing too loudly from across the room. The next, I’m sobbing because I love him so damn much. Then he breathes again… and the cycle repeats. Somewhere in there, I’ve gone from chaos coordinator with color-coded charts to wondering if I even remembered to take my meds this morning. Did I turn off the alarm or just wander aimlessly to the kitchen? What did I walk into the bedroom for? Did I actually shower today? (sniff test: questionable).

And don’t believe me on the crazy brain games? Just ask my mom friends- they can confirm I don’t, in fact, remember a damn thing these days. What size shirt did I order my kiddo? No idea. But scroll up a few messages and you’ll see where one of them told me. Was it the right size? Absolutely not. But… here we are. Losing our minds as quickly as our calendars fill up.

And let’s talk about road rage. Did I scream “ARE WE NOT ALL TAKING TURNS TODAY?” while my windows were down in construction traffic? Absolutely. Did I glare at the poor guy holding the “SLOW” sign like I could burn a hole into his soul? 100%. Did I flip off three separate people for offenses so minor I couldn’t even list them now? Hard yes. Necessary? No. Satisfying? Weirdly, yes. Balanced out later by inconsolable sobbing over a song that reminded me my babies aren’t babies anymore.

This is the weird cocktail of perimenopause, medicated menopause, and hormones. I’ve never been the “mean girl.” Maybe a little crazy, sure. But not mean. And I’ve never been a crier. Apparently, I’ve just been storing up all my anger and tears for this exact stage of life.

So, if you catch me on the road, just know- there’s a decent chance you’ll get the one-finger wave or a profanity-laced scream. But I promise (I think) I don’t mean it. And if you hug me, or even just look at me with a little too much love, well… I might cry.

Blog Post 9

Warning: May Contain “Extra”

September 4, 2025

The back-to-school grind is tough for everyone, but for those kiddos who are a little extra- it’s a whole different kind of hard.

The overstimulated. The over-emotional. The highly sensitive. The sensory-overloaded.

They have to work extra hard just to focus. Making friends doesn’t come as easily. The constant noise and commotion is torture, even though sometimes they’re the loudest one in the room. (Or whisper-quiet. Rarely anywhere in between.)

The schoolwork is hard. The socializing is exhausting. And other kids? They’re not always kind. They’re not always patient. And this part- the part where the world feels too big, too harsh, too unforgiving- this is the part of back-to-school that shatters my Momma heart every. single. year.

You’d think it would get easier with time. But I swear, it gets harder.

Why can’t we just have Mommy & Me school forever? I know the moment he’s had too much. I can spot when he’s teetering on shutdown. I can tell when he’s being too compliant with the bullies, just to avoid being a target. I can read the subtle cues- the silence, the avoidance, the compliance. Will his teacher see it? Will they understand it?

I’ll stand up to him when he’s in the wrong—I’ve never shied from that. But will the teachers know when to push him, when to protect him, and when to let him breathe?

It’s wild when you think about it. We send our hearts into the world every morning. Hand them over to people we don’t truly know, praying they’ll learn our kids—their quirks, their strengths, their struggles, their joys. And somehow, we trust them to help shape these little humans into smarter, kinder, bigger versions of themselves.

For all kids, that’s scary. But for those extra kids? It’s terrifying.

Because with them, you brace yourself for the phone calls. The emails. The reports that come home tucked in folders. The tears that start the second they see your face. The untouched lunchboxes. The “It’s too hard.” The “I don’t understand.”

Five days into school- and my heart already hurts.

Is it summer yet? Because I think I’m going to need a whole lot of projects to keep my hands busy and my mind distracted for the next nine months.

Blog Post 10

We Need To Do Better

September 11, 2025

The world feels unbearably heavy today. My heart is aching in ways I can’t quite explain. When did the world become so terrifying, so cruel, so full of hate?

I will never use this space- or even my private life- as a platform for politics or religion. That’s just not me. But what I will say is this: if I loved you before I knew your opinions, I’ll love you just the same after you’ve shared them. Your beliefs do not erase your humanity, and they do not erase the love I have for you.

A man died yesterday.

A father. A husband. A son. A friend.

Someone I never met, and yet my heart still hurts.

We weren’t created to be carbon copies of each other. We were made to be different. To think differently, to believe differently, and even to debate differently. But above all, we were made to love. And what I see in this world right now is not love. It is not respect. It is not even disagreement. It is hate- pure, consuming, destructive hate.

As a mother, I send two little humans into this world every single day. My hope for them is always the same: that they learn kindness. That they learn respect. That they know how to stand up for what they believe in- but always, always with love. And yet, I look around and I don’t see the world teaching those things. I don’t see it modeling the kind of behavior I pray they grow into.

And then there is my oldest. My son. A man I raised for nineteen years. A man who leaves my house each day for work, driving into places that range from the safest streets to the scariest backroads. I never know where his day will take him, but every time he drives away, my heart carries the same expectation: that he will come home. Safely. Whole. Alive.

But the truth is, the world is teaching me that expectation is no longer a given. That at any moment, someone could decide his opinion, his words, his beliefs- spoken out loud with the same right every human has- are worth more than his life. And that terrifies me.

When did we start believing that we have the right to take another human being away from their family because we don’t agree with them? When did hatred replace humanity? When did respect become optional?

We need to do better.

We must do better.

Because I will not accept that my children are growing up in a world where hate screams louder than love. Where differences are weapons instead of gifts. Where humanity has been overshadowed by cruelty.

If you’ve found your way here- to this page or into my life- know this: I may not always agree with you. I may not share your thoughts, your beliefs, or your opinions. But I will always respect your right to have them. I will support you as a human being. And I will love you with my entire heart.

Because that is what this world needs more of.

Not less love. Not more hate.

Love. Respect. Support.

And maybe, just maybe, if we all start modeling those things- even when it’s hard- our children won’t inherit this same broken world. They’ll inherit one built on love.

And isn’t that what they deserve?