Climbing Out, One Step at a Time

  This was not a good weekend for me. The weird part is, parts of it were good. I did soccer. I went to lunch with my daughter. My son had plans. I laughed. I functioned. I looked fine. That’s kind of the point. I have PTSD. For a long time, mine was described as medical PTSD. Then this year I was in a car accident with a tractor trailer and genuinely thought I might die. I saw something that said, “Having PTSD is like having pop-up ads in your brain for a horror movie that’s based on a true story.” And honestly, yes. I think people sometimes hear PTSD and immediately think of combat. But trauma doesn’t only happen in war. It can come from medical emergencies, accidents, and moments where your brain and body genuinely believed you weren’t safe. And sometimes PTSD doesn’t look dramatic. Sometimes it’s panic. Sometimes it’s anger. Sometimes I lose my words. And sometimes I’m doing all the normal things — being a mom, showing up, laughing, getting everyone where they need to be ...

Some days I wake up in a legitimate fog. And I don't mean tired. I don't mean I need another cup of coffee or didn't sleep enough. I mean fog. Like my brain is there, but I can't quite get to it. Today is one of those days. It's rainy and gray outside, which honestly feels pretty appropriate because that's about what it looks like inside my head too. Yesterday was completely different. Yesterday I was full of rage. Anger. Hurt. Frustration. All of it. I had SO much to say, except half the time I couldn't actually say any of it. I knew what I was feeling. I could feel it everywhere. But trying to turn those feelings into actual sentences? Forget it. And then I wake up today and... Nothing. Completely blank. I've blamed this on PTSD before. Maybe that's what it is. Maybe it's being overwhelmed. Maybe my brain just hits a point where it's like, Okay, that's enough out of you for a minute. I really don't know. What I do know is that I...

I think I need to start carrying around a disclaimer: Before we continue this conversation, please know that I probably mean well. I may say something stupid. I may make a joke that doesn't land. I may use the wrong words. Please refer to the previous however-many years of knowing me before determining that I am secretly an asshole. Because lately, I feel like I spend an incredible amount of time explaining myself. This isn't about one person or one conversation. It's happening in friendships, volunteer work, family, life. I'll say something, someone takes it differently than I meant it, and suddenly I'm explaining what I meant, what I didn't mean, why I said it, and most importantly, that I wasn't trying to hurt anyone. Then, because I'm me, I replay the whole thing. Could I have worded it better? Probably. Should I have said it at all? Maybe not. Did I have some secret malicious intention underneath it? Jesus Christ, no. And that's the part I'm...

I read something about Alfred Nobel recently that I haven't been able to stop thinking about. The story goes that a newspaper mistakenly published his obituary while he was still alive. He got to read how the world would remember him. Can you imagine? Most of us don't get that opportunity. But in a strange way, I feel like I have. I've had three experiences in my life where things could have ended very differently. Three moments that have forced me, in one way or another, to understand that being here isn't something I get to take completely for granted. And lately, I've realized I'm thinking less about what I want to accomplish and more about what I want to leave behind. I'm building my legacy. That sounds incredibly dramatic when I write it out. Like I should be commissioning a statue or naming a library after myself. I am doing neither. I'm talking about the little stuff. How my kids will remember me. Whether they knew, without question, that I showed...

Second and First I was my mother’s first child and my father’s second. It sounds like a completely insignificant fact when you say it out loud. A line on a family tree. A technicality. Except I’m starting to realize it probably shaped a whole lot more of me than I ever gave it credit for. For my mom, I was the first. The first pregnancy. The first baby. The first time someone handed her an actual human being and essentially said, “Okay, good luck.” Every milestone was new. Every fever was probably terrifying. Every decision carried the weight that only first-time parents understand because there was absolutely no evidence yet that the kid would, in fact, survive childhood. I was the experiment. Sorry, Mom. But I was also the one who made her a mother. There’s something really special about that relationship. Your first child is the person you learn motherhood on. You grow up together in a strange way. The child is becoming a person while the mother is becoming a mother. And then there ...

People often tell me I’m a strong advocate. What they don’t always see are the moments when I don’t feel strong at all. Lately, I’ve found myself wondering why some of this feels so much harder than it used to. Why answering one more email feels impossible. Why volunteering—something I genuinely care about—can suddenly feel heavy instead of energizing. And I think I finally realized why: I’ve been in the trenches for a long time. When you’re advocating for your child, it isn’t something you do a few times a year. It becomes part of your life. You learn the terminology. You prepare for meetings. You read evaluations. You ask questions. You celebrate the wins while still wondering what might have been missed. Somehow, you’re always looking ahead to the next thing before you’ve even had time to process the last one. You keep going because your child deserves it and because nobody knows your child the way you do. But sometimes, you get tired. Not because you stopped caring. Not because you...