Climbing Out, One Step at a Time

Today's adventure was supposed to be simple. Famous last words. It was J's eight-year well visit. (Only a couple of months late...which still counts as "this year," so I'm calling it a win.) T just needed a quick hemoglobin check—a tiny finger prick. In and out. Easy. Parents everywhere are laughing already. Things actually started off great. The kids were behaving. We even ran into a friend's husband and their kids in the waiting room. He looked at me politely, clearly trying to figure out who I was, while J whispered, "Mom...who's that?" Thirty seconds later, J runs over and gives him the biggest hug imaginable. Apparently he knew exactly who he was. So we head back, and because I've learned a thing or two over the years, I warned J ahead of time about the finger prick. We talked through it. He asked thoughtful questions. He seemed calm. I thought, Wow...look at this maturity. I should've known better. The moment that little lancet came...

  Functionally Mute Functioning isn't the same thing as feeling okay. There is so much of my time that I spend functionally mute. I have the words. They are all there, mentally lined up and ready to go. I know what I need to say. I know what I need to do. But I can't make myself move. I can't get the words out. I just sit there. It feels like total-body paralysis. There are projects I need to handle. Phone calls I need to make. Paperwork, appointments, insurance, replacing my car... every task feels bigger than it should. I look at the list, and instead of starting somewhere, I become completely overwhelmed. Frozen. Since the accident, I've realized that trauma doesn't always look the way people expect it to. Sometimes it looks like going to work every day. Taking care of your kids. Making dinner. Smiling through conversations. Answering emails. Crossing things off your to-do list. From the outside, it probably looks like you're doing just fine. In many ways, I ...

 It's Been a Minute It's been a minute. I've opened this page more times than I can count over the past few months. I'd think about writing, stare at a blinking cursor, and then close it again. Life has a funny way of doing that. Sometimes it isn't one big thing. Sometimes it's a hundred little things. And sometimes it is one big thing that changes the rhythm of everything else. A few months ago, I was involved in a serious accident on Interstate 287. Since then, life has looked a little different. I'm not ready to write much more about that just yet. But I am ready to write again. Somewhere along the way, it became easier to focus on work, the kids, the garden, volunteering, and checking off the next thing on the to-do list than it was to sit down and put my thoughts into words. This blog was never meant to be perfect. It was meant to be honest. So here's my promise to myself—and to anyone who happens to stumble across this little corner of the internet...

I work with numbers. They’re clean, predictable, and—most days—make more sense than people do. But sometimes, in the quiet moments between spreadsheets and approvals, I think about the other kind of work that happens in every job. The kind that doesn’t live in a spreadsheet or a task tracker. It’s the listening, the noticing, the remembering. The way we smooth the edges in a conversation or keep track of the small human details that make things run just a little easier for everyone. It’s not listed in the job description, but it’s there—quietly woven into every day. I don’t think anyone sets out to overlook it. It’s just… invisible. The work gets done, the deadlines are met, the numbers balance. But behind it all is the uncounted effort—the kind that can’t be measured but still has value. I’m learning to see that value in myself, even if it doesn’t show up on paper.

There’s a part of me I’ve been holding onto. Carefully, tenderly. A future version of myself that never came to be—a mother again. A new baby. A sibling for the ones I already hold close. I’ve been thinking about saying goodbye to my embryos. For six months, it’s circled my mind like a soft whisper and a heavy echo. I used to feel like I had time. Now, I just feel... more like myself again. The person I was before kids. The one who could breathe without thinking about fertility calendars, genetic risks, or insurance battles. I almost feel free. But freedom has a price. Even now, when I see friends announce pregnancies—joyful, glowing, hopeful—I smile for them. And then I cry for me. Not every time. But enough to know it’s not over. The longing has just changed shape. I’m not trying anymore. But I still grieve. This weekend, I’ve been everywhere but home. Friday, I sat with my sister. That kind of closeness is complicated—she’s left before. And when someone leaves enough times, you lear...

We got married in June 2016. By November, we were already dreaming big—talking baby names, counting days, and believing it would all come together quickly. Why wouldn’t it? We were young, healthy, and ready. In January 2017, I thought I was pregnant. I felt off in a way I couldn’t explain—late, tired, emotional. I was convinced. I went for bloodwork, almost excited. It wasn’t just a hope; it felt like a sign. But I wasn’t pregnant. They called me back for more bloodwork. They said my hormone levels looked... off. And then came the words I’ll never forget. I was driving when Dr. R called. He told me that based on my results, my hormone levels were consistent with someone going through menopause. I had to pull over. I was shaking so hard, crying so uncontrollably, I couldn’t see the road in front of me. I remember gripping the steering wheel, trying to make sense of how I went from imagining baby clothes to being told I might never get the chance. I was 32. I had just started. How could ...

This painting started the way many things in life do—unexpectedly. My daughter began by brushing watercolor pinks across the top of a circle. Then came a dark cloud, bold and a little mysterious. It wasn’t something I would’ve chosen—but it was real. Honest. Her. I didn’t want to correct it. I wanted to meet it. So I added to it At first, I painted a field of flowers. But soon, I saw something more: our story. Our family. The lives we’ve lived, the ones still growing, and the ones we hold in memory. Each flower became someone I love—two families of four, my sister standing independently, and the pair in the back: my mom and dad, or maybe my grandparents, still present in their own way. Then came the birds. They’re not just decorations in the sky—they’re us. Every bird I painted represents a family member of mine. Some flying together, some in pairs, one flying solo—but all of us moving through the same sky. We may drift, dip, or rise at different times, but we’re still part of the same...

I recently spent a day volunteering at a school event. It was fun, fulfilling, and honestly, a little emotionally exhausting. The kids were the easy part—loud, chaotic, joyful. The grown-ups? A little trickier. Everyone was nice. Smiling. Chatty. Inclusive, even. But still, I caught myself wondering, "Do they actually like me?" It’s a strange feeling—being surrounded by friendly people and still feeling unsure of where you fit. And the truth is, I’ve been here before. I’ve navigated cliques. I was in a sorority. I know how to read a room, hold my own, and fake confidence when I need to. But even now, even as an adult—I still get insecure. I still worry if someone doesn’t talk to me. I still overanalyze small moments. I still feel like an outsider sometimes, even when I know I’ve been invited in. And I guess that’s the part no one really talks about: That even the most seemingly put-together people are often just quietly wondering if they belong. So if you’ve ever stood in a c...

I recently spent six hours volunteering at a school event. There was music, games, popsicles, and the kind of laughter that only happens when kids are truly in the moment. It was loud. It was chaotic. It was beautiful. There’s something really special about watching young children play without hesitation—cheering for each other, running without a care, giving out high-fives like confetti. And then, as the day goes on, you see the shift. The older the kids, the more self-aware they become. Still fun, still sweet—but layered. You can feel the changes coming, the growing-up part. It's subtle but powerful. Mm mm The grown-ups? Well, let’s just say I got a peek behind the curtain too. There are always little dynamics at play— It’s not good or bad. It just is. And even when everyone is nice, it’s easy to feel like the new kid walking into a scene that started before you arrived. But here’s what stuck with me: Even when I felt a little out of place, I knew I was part of something that mat...

 Why I Think the Yellow Card System Could Change School Dances I haven’t tried this yet, but hear me out—I think it might be brilliant. School dances are supposed to be fun. A chance for kids to let loose, laugh with their friends, and create core memories. But they can also turn into a bit of a behavioral free-for-all if boundaries aren’t clear. As someone who helps plan events, I started thinking: How can we keep things fun and fair… without turning into the dance police? Enter my idea: The Yellow Card System. Just like in soccer, a student who crosses a line—whether it’s inappropriate dancing, disrespectful behavior, or pushing limits—gets a yellow card. It’s a warning. A heads-up that this isn’t okay. If they get a second? They're out. No arguing. No long speeches. Just clear, consistent consequences. Here’s why I think this could work: ✅ It sets expectations: Everyone knows the rules ahead of time and what happens if they break them. ✅ It gives a second chance: A yellow card i...

 On June 8, 2020, I checked into the hospital for what was supposed to be a routine procedure. It was a simple D&C, a way to close the chapter on a miscarriage that had already left me feeling hollow. But as I lay in that cold, sterile room, things went terribly wrong. I lost a massive amount of blood—two liters, they later told me—and for a brief, terrifying moment, my heart stopped. They had to bring me back. I don’t remember all the details. I remember the cold of the table, the panic in my chest as I couldn’t breathe, and the voices around me turning frantic. I remember waking up in the ICU, still pale and shaken, realizing just how close I’d come to not going home to my son. Two days later, I was discharged with an iron prescription and a deep ache in my bones—a reminder of how fragile life really is. Even now, years later, I still feel the weight of that day. It’s something I carry with me, quietly woven into my story. I’m sharing this not to dwell on the medical details,...

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—...

Some nights, I take a deep breath before stepping inside, as if I’m about to perform some intricate balancing act. Not the kind with ribbons and grace, but the kind where you’re juggling knives, blindfolded, while riding a unicycle on a tightrope. I tell myself I’m fine. I’ve got this. I am a seasoned professional at carrying the weight of the world—sometimes literally, if you count the overflowing laundry basket I tripped over this morning. But the truth is, I’m tired. Bone-deep, soul-crushingly tired. Somewhere between the exhaustion and the emotional gymnastics, I found myself wondering when exactly I signed up for this game of Who Can Hold It Together The Longest? And then, as if on cue, life delivered its signature touch of irony. A phone call. A moment that sent me spiraling back into memories I’d rather forget. A reminder that no matter how much I try to move forward, there are still cracks in the foundation. But here’s the thing—I made it home. Maybe reluctantly, maybe with a l...

Yesterday, I woke up at 7:30. And yesterday, someone I love had a biopsy. That’s all I want to say about that part. The details don’t really matter—not here, not now. What matters is what came after. Because nobody talks about this part. Nobody talks about what it’s like to function when you’re terrified. What it’s like to go through the motions—packing lunches, tying shoes, driving to school—while carrying the weight of uncertainty. Nobody talks about what it’s like to hold space for someone else’s pain while barely having space for your own. I have PTSD. It clings to me, sneaking into the quiet moments, showing up uninvited. And yet, life doesn’t pause. There are still responsibilities, routines, and people who need me. So I did what I always do. I got up. I got the kids ready. I got them to school. I have help, and I am grateful for that. But even with help, the fear is still there. The waiting is still there. The exhaustion of trying not to react to every trigger, of trying to be s...

 You know what’s fun? Cake. You know what’s less fun? The weeks leading up to a birthday when your brain decides it’s time for the annual trauma film festival—complete with flashbacks, existential dread, and a surprise guest appearance from ‘Wow, that was a lot of blood!’ Every year, as we get closer to Theresa’s birthday, I find myself reliving parts of her birth in ways I never expect. It’s like my brain throws its own ‘birthday countdown,’ except instead of balloons and streamers, I get intrusive memories and an existential crisis. But you know what? We made it. She’s here, she’s amazing, and I’m grateful beyond words. So while my brain might still be catching up, I’ll be over here eating cake, celebrating my girl, and reminding myself that survival stories deserve sprinkles. Cheers to another year of healing, growing, and cake. Always cake. 🎂