Climbing Out, One Step at a Time

Today was Bring Your Kids to Work Day, and like many well-meaning parents, I had a plan. Sort of. I told my kids they were going to see a movie. I even believed it myself, until I realized I had never actually signed up for the event. Instead, we ended up at my company’s event—the one I should have planned for—but by then, the wheels were already wobbling. My son had started to spiral the moment I broke the news. He was running around, overstimulated, and I tried to keep my cool. I told myself (and everyone around me) that he was fine, that I was fine. But inside, I was embarrassed. Mortified, even. I turned to a coworker and quietly admitted it: “I’m so sorry—he’s just really off today.” And you know what they said? “Don’t let it bother you. It’s totally normal.” That tiny sentence gave me permission to breathe. Still, the day had other surprises. I got called out at work for not sending an invoice last week. It was my fault—I’d missed it in the chaos of everything. But it wasn’t cata...

Here’s the truth about being an adult: the awkwardness never really goes away. It just shifts into new forms—like sending out invites and not knowing if anyone will respond. Like almost canceling your own event because you're afraid no one will come. Like worrying you’ve put yourself out there too much. But I didn’t cancel. And this is what came out of it. A group of amazing women—moms, just like me—gathered in my backyard around the fire pit. We shared stories, snacks, laughs, and the kind of honest connection that fills your cup. I almost let insecurity talk me out of this. But I didn’t. And I’m so proud. Because I’ve been making moves lately—hard ones, brave ones. And not everyone supported them. But the ones who did? They showed up. And they reminded me what really matters. So here’s to this memory, to this version of me: still figuring it out, still rebuilding, but showing up anyway—and deeply thankful for those who do the same.

This year, I cooked a spiral ham. Technically, it was already cooked. But I heated it up—on time, without panic, and without anyone standing in the kitchen hangry and disappointed. And that? That’s a big win. No last-minute chaos. No frantic scrambling while guests stood awkwardly waiting. No tears in the bathroom because it all fell apart again. This time, things were ready. The ham was hot. The table was set. People actually enjoyed the food—and even better, there were leftovers. Good leftovers. Like, eat-it-cold-out-of-the-fridge-the-next-day kind of good. Sure, I could’ve done the eggs earlier. And I probably should’ve sliced some things in advance. But I had help, and we made it work. We made it feel easy. And for the first time in a while, I let myself feel proud. Because that’s what I’ll remember—not the perfect timing, or whether the potatoes were just right—but the feeling of sitting down, looking around the table, and knowing I had a hand in making this memory. And this time?...

He said tomorrow is a waste of time. Just like that—brushed off everything I’ve been working toward with one sentence. The emails, the flyers, the organizing, the hope behind it all. Gone. Labeled useless. But it’s not just about him. Earlier this week, I got a message from someone I tagged—someone I thought would get it. Instead of feeling seen or supported, she asked me to stay quiet. That her family prefers to keep things “extremely silent.” That I should understand this isn’t something they want to talk about. I’ve been carrying that text like a stone in my chest. Because what I heard underneath wasn’t just privacy. It was shame. And that’s what broke my heart. Shame doesn’t belong here. Not in our stories. Not in how we love our children. We need less silence, not more. Because silence is what isolates parents. It’s what makes you think you’re the only one navigating services, fighting for evaluations, decoding acronyms, crying in the parking lot after an IEP meeting. Tomorrow isn...

I walked into today's meeting telling myself I was ready. I had done the prep work, reviewed the paperwork, packed my hope along with my notes. I told myself, this time, I’ll just lean in. Maybe even relax. That was wishful thinking. These meetings—let's just say it, they’re always a lot. You go in wearing two hats: one as a parent, the other as an advocate. And no matter how prepared you feel, you're never quite ready for the emotional whiplash. The fight to make sure your child gets what they need never truly ends. I thought we were wrapping up. I asked a question. Just one. But that one question pulled a thread that unraveled the entire tone of the meeting. Suddenly, we were talking about next year, evaluations, timelines, paperwork, the race against delays. Appointments that take months to book. Plans that need to start now. I made a call today and the earliest appointment I could get was July. I don’t know why this is so hard. Or maybe I do. It's because there'...

It started with a slideshow. Sunday night, the kids and I were scrolling through photos from a year ago. They love seeing how much they’ve grown, how small their hands were, the funny faces, the silly moments. But then—there it was. A picture I hadn’t remembered was saved. A photo of my blood. Thick. Coagulated. Sitting in a glass medical pipe. A visual I thought I had tucked away in the “for later” folder of my mind. Their reaction was swift—disgusted, curious, concerned. So, I did something I didn’t think I could do a year ago. I talked about it. Matter-of-factly. Calmly. Simply. “Mommy was very sick,” I said. “That’s part of what made her better.” They asked questions. I answered. No panic. No spiraling. Just... honesty. And somewhere in the middle of their curiosity and my clarity, I realized how far I’ve come. There was a time when I couldn’t even say the words “hemorrhage” or “ICU” without shaking. There was a time when the memory of that day—the fear, the pain, the helplessness—...