Hey Peps. It’s Friday and we made it. But somewhere between bedtimes, meltdowns, and breakdown, I lost track of time…. Again.
This week started like every other. Guilt raising its ugly ass head, because nothing substantial got done over the weekend. And what did get done well let's just say it doesn’t amount to a hill of beans in comparison. Everything from being tricked into falling asleep early (thanks, Gremlin), only to be shocked wide awake by 1:30 a.m. with a very awake, very non-verbal 9-year-old bouncing off the walls like he’s gearing up for a rave.
I’ve felt like I’ve been rolled over, backed up, and someone hit the gas again. Not in one giant, dramatic collapse (this isn’t the movies), but in the small, steady ways that chip away at you. The kind of tiredness and pure exhaustion that doesn’t go away with sleep. The kind of heavy that isn’t about how much you're carrying, but how long you’ve been carrying it.
So, I sat there, sipping lukewarm coffee in the quiet hours of the morning after my husband made it home, wondering if this was just a bad dream or the new normal. Spoiler: it’s both. Caretaking. Parenting. Surviving. Hustling for peace and purpose between bills, speech therapy sessions, and whatever chaos the day decides to throw at me next. There’s a rhythm to it now. Part muscle memory, part sheer will power disguised as having all my ducks in a row. And honestly? Sometimes that scares me more than the chaos, because no one in their right mind should think this is just another day in paradise.
But here’s the thing: I’m still here. Still pushing forward like the little engine that could because in all due respect this is my life.
Parenting a neurodivergent child isn’t just a full-time job. No, it’s a marathon in the dark with no map, no water breaks, and a finish line that keeps moving. Gremlin, as he will be referred to for obvious reasons, is almost ten. The switch flipped in him, where he went from speaking in complete sentences, feeding himself, and developmentally head, when he was between 18 months and 2 years old. And after fighting tooth and nail, finally got his diagnosis right before he turned 5.
He’s now nearly my size. He can’t always tell me what’s wrong, but his frustration is loud and clear even if his wants and needs currently aren’t. He doesn’t sleep well, and neither do I. There are moments when I look at him and wonder how much longer I can lift him, how many more nights my body will bend without breaking. And yet… here we are. Because when push comes to shove, he’s the reason I’m still putting two feet on the floor every damn morning.
Still showing up for my son, even when words don’t come easy and meltdowns shake the walls. Still holding the line when the world is too loud for both of us, and there is no real help in sight. Still writing. Still working. Still pushing through the haze to find little pockets of joy.
Like the way he dances to music when he thinks I’m not watching. The well-timed meme or video that hits way too close to home. The quiet moments when the coffee is still hot and the world is, just for a second, still.
Burnout is real and has many layers. But so does resilience.
Burnout isn’t just about being tired. It's that feeling of being hollowed out like a pumpkin. Like you’re going through the motions while the core of you has quietly gone offline, and you hope will eventually reboot. It's cooking meals while holding back tears. It’s smiling at your kid while secretly wondering who’s going to take care of you when you finally drop.
I don’t always talk about what it was like being a caretaker for both my mom and my son. Mainly because it’s a shit show that I’m still dealing with, even though mom is gone. Or about losing a job because I stood by my principles, or about living in a house that isn’t mine, because life didn’t go the way I planned. For those that wish to know. When my mom died last year, I retained the house that was hers and I have lived in for over 10 years.
But here is the real kick in the shorts, I carry it. All of it. And most days, I carry it alone. I carry the responsibility of a human being, a wife, a mother, a grieving daughter, a writer, author, friend, you name it, here the fuck I am juggling chainsaws like it's just another day. The problem with that is very few people know I’m struggling to smile through the pain, through the meltdowns and exhaustion, through the missed deadlines and beating myself up over it all. And the ones that do know and have sat with me while I've fallen apart… may the universe bless you every day because I know I’m not easy to deal with.
You're probably asking yourself the same thing I do every day. With all the shit, how do I keep moving forward when the whole damn world seems to be throwing me for a damn loop. What keeps me going is simple or at least simple to me. Getting lost in my playlist, even when the song's meanings are sometimes too much to bear. The Gremlin dancing around his room with happy squeals or the mess he makes. Yes, even when I’ve had the absolute limit with him and the never-ending parade of toys, I remember he’s only this age and size for a short amount of time, and before I can blink it’ll be gone. Lastly, the Hey, Jules from everyone in my life. From cooking to car repairs, from heartache to plot points, and the “hey, I've had one hell of a day. Can you just sit here so I'm not alone?”
I suit up, show up usually with a Red Bull in hand, and get ready to do what I need to do. Even if it’s pure spite I put one foot in front of the other. Cause let’s be real right now, sometimes all we have is spite, rage, and the heart we wish we could turn off from time to time. We don’t though. We keep pushing forward, usually dragging someone else kicking and screaming with us. It’s called showing up and showing out. Most of the time, it’s just that I don’t know how to stop. I refuse to lay down the sword and I will go down hard. Even when I want to quit, stop or give up... I dust off, stand back up, and put my shoulder into it like any good lineman would.
So… Even through the noise, chaos, and characters that now want to shut up when it's finally their turn to sound off… I’M Still Here, Still Standing, Still Digging My heels in not giving up much ground. And If I can… SO CAN YOU. Because it's not about who finished first. It's about saying you're not going to fucking break me.
If you’ve made it this far, thank you. I don’t know what you’re carrying, but I hope you give yourself credit for the weight of it. For how far you’ve come. I’m not writing from a place of resolution, because is anything really every resolved? This isn’t the summit of the mountaintop. This is the messy middle. But I’m here. And so are you.
We’re still here. Still standing. Even if it’s on one leg, with eye bags and an empty coffee pot. That counts for more than anyone gives us credit for. We might be down, but we are never out until we refuse to get our asses back up.
SO, Weekend Vibes & What's Ahead for this chaos momma. I’m keeping it simple this weekend. Nothing too ambitious, but a few things on the list:
Promptcast Saturday Night on Twitch. (because we need the good kind of shock and awe)
Catching up on Sweet Magnolia (because yes, I need that chaos that isn’t mine for once)
Some deep cleaning (the kind where you open a drawer and wonder if it’s a time capsule or the missing paperwork for the appliances you no longer own.)
Writing time, if the universe and or Gremlin allows
Finally taking the first stab at organizing my office… maybe
It’s not glamorous, but it’s movement. And for now, that’s enough.
To everyone else towing the edge of burnout like a dead car you should have left on the side of the road… you’re not alone. Even if the world doesn’t see how hard you’re fighting just to stand up every day… I see you. And I’m right here with you. Still here. Still standing. Still fighting. We Got this. Now go do the damn thing, and I’ll catch you Monday with the next installment of Chaos from the Keyboard.
Be Brave, Be Bold, But Always Stay Humble.
No comments:
Post a Comment