Climbing Out, One Step at a Time

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. 🎂

March 14. Three years ago today, I walked into my two-week postpartum visit expecting a routine checkup. I thought I’d hear that I was healing well, maybe get some advice on balancing recovery with life as a mom of two. Instead, I was blindsided. My blood pressure was dangerously high. So high that the doctor refused to let me leave the office without promising to go straight to the hospital. I didn’t get to go home, pack a bag, or prepare myself for what was coming—I was just sent. Alone. Whether it was because of the pandemic, the time of year, or just bad luck, I felt completely isolated. That’s what I remember most—being alone. Sitting in that hospital bed, hooked up to monitors, processing the fact that my body was still betraying me. I had already been through so much, and now, instead of healing, I was back in a place I never wanted to be. Family stepped in to help, making sure everything was handled at home. I knew I wasn’t needed there in that moment, but that was the only pla...

 There’s a story I love about someone who falls into a ditch . People walk by, offering advice, but no one truly helps—until someone jumps in. “Why did you do that?” the person in the ditch asks. “Because I’ve been here before,” the other replies, “and I know the way out.” That story has stuck with me because, in so many ways, I’ve been in that ditch. I’ve felt trapped by grief , trauma , uncertainty, and the weight of experiences I never imagined I’d have to navigate. I’m still climbing out, but one step at a time, I’m finding my way. Why I’m Writing This Blog For a long time, I held onto my story, afraid to share it—maybe because I thought I had to have all the answers before I could speak. But healing isn’t about having everything figured out; it’s about taking steps forward, even when they’re small or messy. This blog is my way of sharing those steps. It’s a space to be honest about what it’s like to climb out of trauma, medical PTSD , grief, and the unexpected turns life throw...