Mental Health vs Romanticized Pain

Hey hey, Peps. How are we doing today? Have you eaten? Drank water? No, well here is your sign to go do that. Me, well, it's been an eventful morning and it’s not even 11am yet. Hubby had a doctor's appointment and ended up getting a blocker shot in his neck/shoulder. Hopefully this will relieve the pain enough that he’ll be able to work without pain.

While waiting for him to come out, I had thoughts about today's post…. There’s a fine line between writing pain honestly and turning it into something beautiful enough to be misunderstood. Sit with that for a moment. I have recently, and by recently I mean within the last 30 minutes, found out that I apparently don’t. 

I give my character the situations to overcome with the accompanying trauma. I have tried to show the resilience people have, when they have their backs against the wall. Which apparently is not the case for everyone. For some that have been through the same things I have, they folded. I picked myself up, dusted off, lowered my shoulders and bulldozed through it with the grace of a bull in a china cabinet. My FMCs typically do the same thing. 

But in the writing world…. Suffering/enduring for love is a tail as old as time. Art, in all forms, has always been drawn to broken things. But somewhere along the way, pain started getting polished—made aesthetic, poetic, enviable. Mental illness became a vibe. Trauma became a personality trait. Endurance became a substitute for healing.

That’s where things get dangerous. Mainly due to the fact that “Dark Romance” romantics romanticize toxic relationships, tropes, and emotionally unavailable people. Basically the RED FLAGS. (BTW they are not Matri Gras beads, you do not need to collect them all.) Struggling doesn’t make someone more interesting. Being in pain doesn’t give a story depth by default. And surviving something awful doesn’t mean it should define a person forever. Which is what I have tried to portray with my characters, but according to some, have fallen massively short on.

Mental health isn’t romantic. It’s exhausting. It’s inconvenient. It’s repetitive. It’s unglamorous work done in private often without applause or visible progress. It’s setting boundaries no one claps for. It’s choosing stability over intensity, even when intensity feels more familiar.

Romanticized pain tells us suffering is proof of worth. Mental health asks us to unlearn that. And depending on what generation you are from, society tells us to suck it up, we are fine. Like Elsa, conceal don’t feel. 

As a reader, dark romances are my guilty pleasure. The bad boy claiming has always kinda been like my "OH REALLY" kind of thing. But... As a writer, I’m interested in what happens after the breaking point. After the dramatic moment. After the trauma is named but not magically resolved. I want quiet resilience. The awkward healing. The days where nothing explodes but something still shifts. And I actually thought I did that, well. 

I say all that to say this: Pain can be part of a story without being the whole story. We don’t need to glorify damage to tell the truth. We don’t need to stay wounded to stay compelling. Growth doesn’t erase what happened, it reframes it.

Also, I'm not here to yuck anyone else's yum. I am merely saying mental health work isn’t cinematic. It’s courageous anyway. And choosing healing over mythologizing your pain? That might be the bravest narrative choice of all.

So, where have you noticed pain being romanticized—in stories or in your own life? What are you choosing to carry forward that supports healing instead? Share if you feel comfortable. You’re not alone in this.

Be Brave, Be Bold, But Always Stay Humble

Surviving The Beginning of January, Without Burning Everything Down.

Happy 2nd day of 2026, or as we like to call it Friday… How's everyone holding up? Are you still feeling the effects of that hangover? Wondering if everything you did yesterday will give you a brighter year? Or maybe you're sitting at your computer preparing a battle plan, because if the last 5 to 6 years has taught us anything; You prepare for everything (leave nothing to chance). 

Maybe yesterday you did the whole Resolutions list…  You now have 6 to 10 things you want to happen in the next 363 days. All well in good, but what are you going to do to actively make that happen? Words without action is just screaming into the void. And I don’t want anyone out here screaming, pulling their hair out, or saying the dreaded “I couldn’t do it”…. Babe, you can do whatever the hell you set your mind too… But you are going to have to be realistic about a LOT of things. 

See January has a reputation it didn’t really earn and some things that it did. It’s the month where expectations spike and energy doesn’t. Where everyone is suddenly sprinting toward “better” while still exhausted from surviving. Where the pressure to optimize your life shows up before you’ve even caught your breath.

If January makes you want to burn everything down and start over, you’re not broken. You’re human. We have been fed this line of bullshit since we were old enough to know what the hell it is. Society, sitting back wanting us all to fit into this little box, but we were never meant to. They want us to be smaller, quieter, and less opinionated. Not in this rodeo. 

For me, survival in January doesn’t look like transformation. It looks like restraint balled up in frustration, tied off with “don’t make rash decisions”. You know it's choosing not to make permanent decisions in temporary exhaustion. (Which hasn’t felt temporary in the last year and a half.) Not rewriting my entire life because the calendar flipped. Not mistaking restlessness for failure or quiet for stagnation. Because what a lot of us forget, you need quiet to find your center, and restlessness to forward the plot.

January is literally a holding pattern month. A stabilization month. A “don’t make it worse” month, but it does set the tone for the year. That means we need to focus on fewer big promises and more realistic ones. Keeping routines simple. Letting some things stay messy without interpreting that as moral failure. Remembering that momentum doesn’t always announce itself loudly—it often shows up as consistency you almost overlook.

I remind myself that burnout doesn’t disappear just because the year is new. Healing doesn’t accelerate on command, pressure disguised as motivation is still pressure, and no matter what anyone else wants you to do… you can make it a FUCK NO. 

So instead of lighting matches, I try to focus on tending the small fires left over from the year before. Giving myself enough structure to feel grounded, enough flexibility to breathe, and enough honesty to admit when I’m tired instead of pretending I’m inspired.

January doesn’t need to be conquered. It needs to be endured with intention. Survival is not a setback. It’s the foundation everything else gets built on. It’s also the reminder that we are stronger than we give ourselves credit for. Because at the end of the day we stand up, take care of our families, and we take-ith no Shit. We don’t need to come in with guns blazing. We need to tiptoe like its quickstand. 

So, what’s helping you survive January without self-destructing? What are you giving yourself permission not to fix right now? Tell me in the comments, I want to hear how We’re gunna get through this together.

Sleep Deprivation and Storytelling: The Ugly Truth

    Buckle up buttercup, this is gunna be a long one.

    There’s this romanticized idea that writers thrive on chaos. You’ve seen it in movies, in memes, in the way people joke about surviving on nothing but caffeine, nicotine, cold pizza, and “the muse”, that has jokes. We laugh at all the misconceptions of what a writer/ author physically looks like. Why? Because it's funny, and unfortunately, there is a small or large grain of truth to it. But there’s a darker side to it that doesn’t get talked about nearly enough. Sleep deprivation isn’t just some quirky “writer's life” tag line. It’s brutal. It’s ugly. And sometimes, it’s dangerous.

I’m not talking about the occasional late night where you’re in the zone and lose track of time. Or when you wake in the middle of the night needing to write something down, before you lose it. Then BAM, it's 6:15am and it’s time to get the kids up and ready for school. 

 I’m talking about days on end of being barely able to function because your brain refuses to shut down. Life, kicking you in ass after said late night, and now, you don’t get the chance to rest because you have other shit that needs your attention. 

For me, it’s usually a mix of both. Parenting, deadlines, and emotional overload collide until I’m staring at the ceiling at 3am, counting down the hours until I have to get up and do it all over again. A tightness in my chest is growing, because I think I’m letting everyone down. Then my mind shifts so hard into fifth gear you’d swear you heard the gears grind.

And let me tell you, writing through that kind of fog isn’t glamorous. It’s a war. War with fictional characters that scream loud enough to crack pains of glass. War with the setting because if I do it this way or that way it might not be believable. War with myself over the imposter syndrome, that seems to creep in just as shits going down. 

When I sit down at the keyboard after three hours of broken sleep, the words come out differently. Sometimes they flow too fast, like a dam cracked open and everything I’ve been holding back pours onto the page, unfiltered and raw. Other times, it’s like pulling teeth without novocaine. Slow, Painful, and Jagged while you're screaming and crying. 

The strange thing about writing while sleep-deprived is that the voice in your head doesn’t shut up, but your ability to catch it and shape it into something coherent falters. You end up with pieces of brilliance tangled in nonsense. Whole paragraphs where you go back the next day and think: Wow. That’s either the most honest thing I’ve ever written or complete garbage. Possibly both.

That’s the ugly truth: sleep deprivation doesn’t just affect your body; it twists your storytelling. And sometimes, the work you produce in those dark hours can’t be replicated in the light of day. Which becomes frustrating, if you finally found the voice for that one damn character that doesn’t seem to sound right at any other time.  

Now, let's talk about how the human husk starts keeping score.

Sleep deprivation doesn’t just make you cranky. It wrecks your body. The headaches, the short fuse, the endless coffee jitters that do nothing but dig you into a deeper hole. All of it adds up. And as much as I love being “the strong one,” I’ve had to learn (the hard way) that my body always cashes the checks my sleepless nights write. Which constantly leaves me owing spoons and/or fucks to give.

For me, it’s the shakes in my hands when I type too long. The pain in my wrists that seem to go up my arm from trying to keep my hands on home row. The crash that hits out of nowhere when I finally sit down after a day of sprinting from one task to the next. My patience with the people I love wears razor thin, and that guilt lingers far longer than the exhaustion itself. Sleep deprivation makes me feel like I’m failing twice. Once in the moment, and again when I see the fallout.

Storytelling on Empty isn’t something we talk about but we have all experienced it one way or another.

Here’s the catch: sleep deprivation doesn’t stop me from doing my job as a writer or parent. In fact, sometimes it fuels it. The ugly truth is that some of my rawest, most gut-punching scenes have come from nights when I was too tired to put up my usual walls. Exhaustion strips away the polish. It drags your subconscious into the spotlight and says: Okay, you’re too tired to censor this. Let’s go. 

That’s when characters reveal truths I wasn’t planning on. That’s when villains start sounding like people I know in real life. That’s when the plot twists cut a little deeper because they’re born from a place I wouldn’t touch if I had my full defenses up. But there’s a cost.

Every time I write on empty, I’m borrowing against tomorrow and all the other tomorrows. And eventually, tomorrow shows up wanting interest, a formal apology, and dinner. 

The Balance I Haven’t Mastered, so don’t feel bad if you haven’t either. After all, we are being honest here. 

I wish I could wrap this post up with some tidy advice like: Go to bed earlier! or Make sleep part of your self-care routine! But that wouldn’t be honest. The truth is, I haven’t mastered this balance. I probably never will as long as my “Office” is less than 10 steps from my bed. Because in my life there is no work like balance, there is only “Get up and do the damn thing” no matter what the “damn thing” happens to be. 

I write because I want and need to. I parent because I love my Gremlin more than anything. I push through the exhaustion because life doesn’t stop just because I’m tired, or had a bad day. And if I wait for the “perfect” rested moment to write, I might never write at all. Let’s face facts “perfection” is highly over rated. The mess and chaos are what make life worth living, when your body is screaming “you’ve lost your damn mind”.

So, I make peace with the ugly truth: some nights will bleed into mornings, and some mornings will start with Red Bull in hand, a cigarette hanging out of my mouth, and a messy bun from the day before instead of the put together MOM. My words will sometimes come out jagged, sometimes brilliant, sometimes both. That’s part of the deal I’ve struck with myself as both a writer and a human being surviving not only on but also with the chaos.

Why Do I Keep Going?

At the end of the day (or night), the stories matter. My son matters. My survival matters. And if the cost of telling the truth — in my life, in my fiction, in my blog posts — is a few more sleepless nights, then I’ll pay it. Because when push comes to shove, I know I have a gift. I have the ability to make others see, feel and experience something. And what kind of person would I be if I kept that to myself. Selfish that’s what I’d be.

But I’ll also admit, here in the raw light of honesty, that I’m tired. I’m bone-deep tired. And I know some of you reading this are too.

So maybe the only real advice I can offer is this: give yourself grace. If you’re writing through exhaustion, if you’re stumbling through the day, if you’re holding it all together with caffeine and stubbornness, and the will to not end up on an episode of SNAPPED, you’re not alone. The stories will come. They always do. The house will eventually get cleaned. It always does. The kids will be fed. Even in the ugly truth of sleep deprivation, everything finds a way.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s where the most real storytelling happens. Drop some comments about your struggle bus moments.

REMEMBER:

Be Brave, Be Bold, But Always Stay Humble.

The Guilt of Taking a Break (and Why I’m Learning Not To)

Here’s something I don’t talk about enough: the guilt. We do here, but not out in public. And why is that?

Every time I sit down and don’t write, or clean, or work, that voice creeps in. The one that says I’m wasting time. That I should be doing more. That I’m lazy. Rest feels like weakness. Silence feels like failure.

And yet, burnout doesn’t make me productive. It makes me useless. When I push myself past the breaking point, my words dry up, my patience withers, and I’m not good for anyone, especially not my son, who deserves a mom who has something left to give not a short fuse. 

I’m learning (slowly, stubbornly) that taking a break isn’t selfish. It’s survival. Those moments of rest, whether it’s a nap, a walk, or even just sitting in silence, refill the well. They give me the strength to keep going when life demands more than I think I have.

The truth is, my guilt is rooted in fear. Fear of falling behind. Fear of not being enough. Fear that if I stop, even for a moment, everything will collapse around me. But the more I fight that fear with actual rest, the more I realize the opposite is true. The breaks don’t make me weaker. They keep me in the game.

So today, if you’re reading this and feeling that same guilt, let me say it plain: rest isn’t lazy. Breaks aren’t wasted time. They’re what keep us from burning all the way out.

And survival? Survival is enough.

Be Brave, Be Bold, But Always Stay Humble

When You’re the Safe Space and the Storm

This one hits a little differently today. I don’t know if it’s the fact I haven’t really slept, I’m already on my 2nd Red Bull, or maybe because I can’t stand it when the Gremlin doesn’t feel well, especially when it’s tummy troubles. Because at that point there isn’t shit I can do except give him the meds and make him as comfy as possible. 

Hubby is also coming through similar things with his stomach, and of course I’m doing everything to keep him hydrated. Gremlin, of course, didn’t go to school today and Hubby didn’t go in last night. What’s this currently mean for me? I have two under foot, both needing me, both needing comfort, and only one that can change his own damn channel. 

I’m the safe space. I am the one that calms the Gremlin when he has had a bad day. I am also the one that can read his emotions faster than they start to manifest. That’s essentially what being a parent of a special needs child is attempting to stay three steps ahead and hoping you went down the right rabbit hole. For my husband… I’m the dumping ground of information and he has no problem telling anyone that I’m the brains.

There’s something nobody tells you about being the strong one: people will crawl into your arms when their world is burning, but they’ll also blame you when the fire spreads.

Being the “safe space” sounds comforting, right? It makes you think of soft blankets, quiet corners, and someone’s steady heartbeat that reminds you you’re not alone. And sometimes it is like that. Sometimes being the safe space means you’re the one people can cry to at 2 a.m. without fear of judgment, or the one who can listen without flinching when someone spills their darkest secrets.

But here’s the other side: being the storm.

Storms are destructive, messy, loud, impossible to ignore. And if you’ve been through enough life or as we now call it character development. If you have enough loss, enough pain, enough people taking advantage of your kindness; you know there’s a storm in you too. You’ve learned that sometimes the safest thing you can do for yourself is to burn down what’s toxic, flood the bridges that only carried betrayal, or rip the roots out of relationships that were only ever weeds.

That duality, safe space and storm, can feel impossible to live with. You want to be the place people run to, but you also know what it feels like when they run through you, leaving wreckage behind. You want to be gentle, but sometimes your gentleness gets mistaken for weakness. You want to keep your storm locked away, but sometimes it slips out when you’re protecting yourself, or when someone pushes too hard against the boundaries you’ve been too tired to enforce.

Here’s the part I’ve had to learn the hard way: you don’t have to choose. You don’t have to be just the shelter or just the hurricane. You can be both—the comfort and the chaos, the arms that hold and the winds that clear. Being both doesn’t make you unstable, it makes you human.

The world is going to misunderstand you. Some people will love the safety but recoil from the storm. Others will crave your fire but resent your tenderness. That’s not your fault. It’s not your job to dilute yourself so someone else can feel comfortable.

Your balance is yours. Your fire is yours. Your peace is yours.

So if you’re like me. If you’ve ever wrestled with feeling “too much” and “not enough” in the same breath. Remember this: storms aren’t just destructive, they’re also cleansing. They strip away what can’t survive so something stronger can take root. And safe spaces aren’t just quiet, they’re alive, powerful, and sacred.

You are allowed to be both. You are allowed to be everything. And if someone can’t handle that? Then maybe they were never meant to weather your storms or rest in your safety.

Be Brave, Be Bold, But Always Stay Humble

Burnout Wears Lip Gloss Some Days

Good Wednesday Morning Peps! We are halfway through the week. I don’t know about the rest of you, but I feel like I’m somewhere between “I’m going to get shit finally done today” and “Why do I have so much to do today?” Questions, most of us parents, ask ourselves before we start the major overhaul of our homes. 

With school now in full swing around here, I’m week 2 into having the Gremlin out of the house during the day. You would think moving through the house would be easier. It isn’t. Mostly because I’m still battling exhaustion, depression, and burnout. An uphill battle that has me feeling like the worst version of myself, even though no one else sees the fight. 

Burnout isn’t always messy. Sometimes it gets dressed, throws its hair up in a mess bun, prays the clothes are clean and pretends it has its life together. Because God forbid people actually see the mess our lives really are, and fully understand we are holding it together with hopes, dreams, and a caffeine addiction. Hell, some operate off pure damn rage and spite. 

That’s the default version I run off of more often than not. The one who folds laundry like a champ, checks things off lists, and still looks presentable enough to trick the world into thinking she’s thriving. It’s the “I’ve got this” version that I’ve accepted is all smoke and mirrors. That only a very slim amount of people knows where to look for the cracks.

Here’s what it really looks like:

Waking up at 3am because the Gremlin needed something or the meds burned through his system too quickly, and your brain decides to stay awake even after they’re back asleep, because we aren’t sure if we or our partner will hear the alarm. Then it's “where’s the socks?”, “That shirt doesn’t go with those shorts.”, “Did you check his backpack?” and that’s all before coffee has passed your lips. 

Then you find yourself either starting your day or laying down for just a few hours. But by the time you rejoin the land of the living shit has gone sideways, it's now noon, and the bus will be back with the little in less than two hours. OR you find yourself sitting in silence at 8 a.m. because it’s the only quiet you’ll get all day. 

Already negotiating with yourself about which fires can actually burn a little longer before you deal with them. Mapping out zones in your head like you’re planning a military operation. Zone 1 (the kid’s room, bathroom, hallway), Zone 2 (living room, staging ground), and so on. Oh, and let's not talk about that story line that has been playing in your head like a bad 90s jingle.  

Burnout wears a tank top, ripped jeans, falling apart sneakers, and just enough eyeliner to keep anyone from looking too closely at fractured puzzle pieces. Burnout wears lip gloss when I fold two loads of laundry and put them away like it’s proof I’m still a functional adult. 

It wears lip gloss when I tell myself I’ll write for forty-five minutes and then tackle another corner of chaos. It wears lip gloss when I walk into the living room, gather every misplaced piece of laundry, and drag it all into the kitchen staging area, so I can trick myself into believing I’m making progress. It’s not screaming at the top of my lungs for help that honestly will not come. 

From the outside, it looks productive. From the inside, it feels like I’m dragging myself through molasses in -40 weather. The lip gloss is just the cover. The shine. The illusion. That keeps my ass sane when this crazy shit is my life. This is my monkeys and circus, but no one ever said I was actually in charge when they were running with scissors. 

That’s the sneaky part about burnout; it doesn’t always look like collapse. It doesn’t always look like falling apart on the bathroom floor or crying in the car. Sometimes it looks like a one-woman wrecking crew who gets 75% of the house wrangled by bedtime. Sometimes it looks like competence. Sometimes it even looks like success.

But the shine wears off. And when it does, what’s left is the part I have to remind myself is okay: the unfinished rooms, the skipped chores, the writing that waits until tomorrow. Because pretending I’m fine doesn’t actually refill the tank. And these days I’m running through spoons and fucks like there is a dump truck of both sitting in the yard.

Burnout in lip gloss is still burnout. And no matter how good I get at disguising it, I don’t have to prove anything to anyone. I don’t owe anyone my explanations, time, or energy. I do owe myself honesty, grace, and a little credit. Some days, “good enough” is enough.

So, when you find yourself on the other side, trying to catch a break, know you are not alone. Shit happens and as long as the kids are fed, they have clean clothes for the next day, and the animals didn’t end up with a surprise haircut, its fine. Everything is fine. The world is on fire, but it was on fire yesterday so its fucking fine.

Now go get you something to drink, sit in peace for a few more minutes, then rock that bitch like it owes your ass money. I’ll catch you tomorrow or the day after.

Be Brave, Be Bold, But Always Stay Humble.

Executive Dysfunction and the Writer Brain

Ever have a brilliant idea? You know the ones I’m talking about. The one where you are scouring the internet, apps, and even Facebook to see if anyone else has done it. Or a little recon on what they did so you can do it differently? And the moment you are positive this will work, you sit down, open that new document or pull out that notebook you were saving for just this story. You have everything right there at your finger tips… and then forget what you were going to do, where you put your pen, all just five minutes later? 

Welcome to the writer's brain in full executive dysfunction mode. It’s like juggling chainsaws… while riding a unicycle… on a windy day…. while small children ask you riddles no one has the answer to. 

I know that sounds dramatic but when you really think about it… I’m not wrong. See for me, it shows up in the small, some would say insignificant, ways that just send me over the damn edge before the caffeine has made me human. A messy desk, my chair being moved, my charger falling behind the desk, half-started projects that are judging me from the screen, a to-do list that feels like a minefield or mountain. 

Some days, I know exactly what needs to be done and how I’m going to get the most out of my day before my Gremlin, you know the one I made not the ones roaming like a cyclone in my head, decides to Mommy me. But then the characters start screaming like they’ve had no home training, the cat keeps knocking my mouse off the desk, and my brain goes into screen saver mode. All the tasks that I’m supposed to be actively working on, and plots decide to hide like they’re Easter eggs, and I didn’t sign up for the hunt. And don’t even get me started on the house chaos that somehow mirrors my mental clutter.

Executive dysfunction isn’t laziness. It’s a neurological hiccup that makes organizing, starting, or completing tasks feel impossible, even when you desperately want to. Writers, creatives, and anyone with a busy brain experience it differently, but the result is the same: mental friction, frustration, anger and guilt. They all go hand in hand for someone that just wants an hour of focus. 

The hacks? Tiny victories. Break big tasks into micro-steps, use timers, and reward yourself for completing the smallest things. Some days, just moving laundry from the floor into a basket counts as a win. Putting the dishes in the kitchen and out of whatever weird spot you found them, also a major ass win. Because in the world of the writer's brain, progress is progress. No matter the size, forward motion leads to more forward motion. 

So, tell me: how does executive dysfunction show up in your life? And what little hacks do you use to survive it? Let’s swap tricks and reward systems. After all, we’re all over here just juggling chainsaws pretending like it's normal.

Be Brave, Be Bold, But Always Stay Humble.

First Day of School: Feels More Like a War Zone at Home

We made it y’all. We made it to the first day of school, like damn troops battling through high waisted grass praying we didn’t get bit by a damn snake. Especially since the last few days leading up to today have been a bit nuts. Doctor’s appointments, registration, back-to-school shopping, and let's not forget trying to tame the mess we all have been battling uphill since Summer Break started. 

And honestly, I’m a little shocked by the Gremlin’s behavior today. Not because he went to bed on time, or got up on time. Not because he didn’t fight his father over the clothes, shoes, or having to wear socks. Not even because he ate his breakfast, took his meds, and walked out the door and waited patiently for the bus, which he walked on like it was nothing. But because the contrast from last year to this year is like night and flipping day. To him, it was a normal Wednesday. For me, on the other hand, it's the break that I have been waiting for for the last six weeks. 

It’s the chance to get the house back in running order, without having to worry about it being messed up in 30 minutes. It's a chance to deep clean his room without begging for someone to keep him entertained to do so. It's actually folding and putting away laundry instead of living out of clothes baskets because I was doing a hundred things at once. And while having a clean and organized space, should bring me a sense of accomplishment. All I can think about is how is his day going?

Five years of first days, and I still feel the same way I did when he went to Kindergarten. At least this for the last few years, I get to see him get on the bus. I’m a phone call away if shit goes sideways. I’m not stuck on a production line anxiety riddled while he is doing this. I got to get the kiss goodbye, while telling him to have a good day. That’s the joy and sacrifice playing out in real time. 

Joy because I’m right here, 12 minutes from the school keys in hand. I get to be a part of all the special moments: class parties, field trips, and school assemblies. I also get to follow my passion, which I turned into a carree. I get to write and answer emails from fellow authors and fans, while also doing laundry, dishes and taking care of the house. I also get to see his little face when he walks off the bus in the afternoons, without having to rush home covered in god knows what from work. Some would say I’m lucky. 

But here is what I sacrificed to be here. 

Free time, because let’s face it, that doesn’t fucking exist. I’m either working on the house, yard, keeping bills paid, and/or the little Gremlin alive. When I’m not doing that, I’m sitting at my desk in my office trying to bang out at least 2500 to 3k works in a few uninterrupted hours. And even once the house is quiet because of naps, or bed. I’m prepping everything for either the next day, or staring off into space because I have forgotten what I was doing. Then going to sleep to do it all again the next day.

A full time 2nd paycheck. While I make royalties from my books, if they don’t sell well that month, we don’t have the extra money. As a family of three (plus two cats and a dog), we live paycheck to paycheck. And I have successfully kept our heads above water, while also keeping the car in the driveway on the road. It isn’t easy by a long shot. Having a job outside the house is also a blessing and curse. At least you have other semi humans to talk to. I have to wait for all my friends to come home from work to have an adult conversation. Otherwise, It’s just me and the washing machine or YouTube.

Work life balance is a fun one that I have thrown out the damn window. Let’s face facts. Like real down in the mud facts here. Once my feet hit the floor, Red Bull in hand, Cigarette hanging from my lips, and hair thrown up in whatever will keep it off my neck for the next few hours, IT’S GO TIME. It’s opening curtains and surveying damage of a tantrum I was too exhausted to deal with the night before. It’s praying I don’t have to wash the load of laundry for the third time because new flash: I got side tracked. It’s making sure hubby has clothes for work and Gremlin stays in clothes instead of streaking through the house. 

It’s booting up my computer to check a to-do list, project management (which lately is me just sitting here for 10 minutes narrating how I should be doing more.) Then staring out the window looking at all the things I need to do in my own yard… Like cutting it. Breath deep and power through, while managing two other humans lives. Most days that's before the caffeine has told me it's safe to function. 

Being a Stay at Home Parent is the best, most thankless job, we do. Some of us choose this, others, like me, got thrown into it so hard, we now have trauma and whiplash. We don’t have friends. We have battle buddies that see us at our worst and best. At this point, other than the work trip to Green Bay, I haven’t been able to just sit down and socialize. While yes, we do socialize on Saturday nights over on Twitch. We are all there because of one main reason, to make Izzy laugh until she turns purple. (Kidding Izzy… there is crying too)

Most, if not all my friends, live states away. The ones that are close to my area, they have their own lives, and shit to deal with. I respect that. After all, I’m in the same damn river paddling up stream with the rest. But the main point is, the load gets too much to carry. And while yes, I wouldn’t have it any other way right now, doesn’t mean I can’t want things to be a little different. That I shouldn’t want the other half to pull his damn weight inside the house, as he does when he escapes the house. 

So tomorrow, I’m declaring a mental health day/ reward for surviving the summer. I am taking the time out of my day to go get my hair done. Why? Because It makes ME feel human. I’m not just a mom, wife, writer, author, and bestie to a group of amazing peps. I’m also a woman that needs to feel human and not like a damn servant. This is my line in the sand. What’s yours?

If you're out there doing the most with the least this one's for you. Keep swinging, keep showing up. And for the love of your sanity, take your damn mental health day. You’ve earned it. Alright on that note, I have to go see if the washer is off balance again or if it's actually spun out this time. Have an amazing day, and if shit gets rough remember bail isn’t cheap. We will get through all of this one step at a time. You're not a failure if you stumble, and sometimes you need that shinny to get through the day. 

Be Brave, Be Bold But Always Stay Humble.

The Weight of the Quiet: Parenting Without a Net

Happy Wednesday everyone. (Okay, I know it's Thursday, but this took me all day to write.) I hope y’all are holding that line the best way you can. Personally, we hit some major milestones for both me and the Gremlin so far this week that I would like to share with the class. After all, that’s what this blog is about. Balancing the good, bad and ugly of a Self-employed Indy Author and Stay at Home Parent with a dash of self-awareness others can relate too. So, without further fluff (LMAO) let's dive into this week's Juggling Chainsaws & Mental Health addition.

Everyone knows my mother was my rock, my ride or die, and most importantly the woman that held the line, so I could work 12 to 18hr days. She helped me raise the Gremlin from the time he came into this world and was the first one to stand toe to toe with anyone that called me a bad mother because I was working damn near around the damn clock. She kept me grounded, sane, and most importantly seen. Hell, she was the inspiration behind my first published main character, Rose. 

 She was the only person, until recently, I fully trusted with Ares. It wasn’t because she was perfect, but because she saw him for the amazing child he is. She knew what he needed, when he needed it. Mom never made him feel like he was broken or made me feel like I had to explain the invisible load I was carrying. Hell, she was a momma of three plus the friend groups that all called her Momma Red. 

But after her fall, not being inside these walls was an adjustment, I handled the best I could. Then, I completely lost her and became the solo captain of a ship I have never had to navigate by myself before. Sure, while momma was still alive, I’m the one that made all the decisions, did the shopping, handled the doctors' appointments, and cooked. But she was right there next to me or, in the last year of her life, a phone call away. She remembered the shit I would forget like toilet paper, dish tabs, or to pick up meds from CVS. 

The point is, Momma was the other half of my brain that I thought would always be there. She held the choke chain, that kept me in line, when I would openly debate doing something stupid. And now, let's just say, even with someone else in the room, I’m steering the ship through a hurricane trying to stay the course. Doesn’t help I have a broken compass, can’t see the stars, and most of the crew want to stage a mutiny. But we are surviving with a few cuss words, chicken nuggets, and a heavy hand of sass, defiance, and caffeine.

Which leads me into the big milestones, my Gremlin, yesterday, went to his very first pool party and hung out with his best friends. And wait for it… without me. Someone he’s really close to at school picked him up and took him over there. Which allowed me a few hours to get his room cleaned, along with other housework that I normally couldn’t get done without someone else keeping him distracted. 

Why is this such a big deal for both of us you might be asking yourself? See, I have very high anxiety about him being out of my sight for any length of time that isn’t school, and even then, if that bus is late in the afternoons, full blown panic attack. (Long story and maybe one day I will share the why, just know it’s a completely valid reason.) Which leads to my fear that no one else is watching him the way I do. No one has memorized the non-verbal cues, the sounds, the silences that mean something from a child that screeches. Let's face it, it’s not like I have some big backup system waiting in the wings if shit goes sideways for whatever reason.

So, with that being said, Lil man has never done sleep overs, play dates that weren’t at the park or our house, or anything a normal 9-year-old would have done at this point in his life. Because let's face it, I don’t trust a whole lot of people with my created chaos. Why because he is non-verbal and the world is a scary ass place for a normal child let alone one that can’t tell you something is wrong or happened. Safety is my number one priority when it comes to my child, and even when I know deep down, he is fine, that doesn’t stop me from watching him like a hawk. 

And let's face facts here…. People I trusted to be in his life, that I leaned on after mom passed, did me dirty. This left me jaded to the point where I see danger, when it's really people offering me help. A net, if you will, when I’ve been playing on a tight rope balancing thousands of pounds of responsibilities over shark infested waters. Which has left me hyper-aware, hyper-tired, hyper-functional, and my personal favorite just plan flipping HYPER. People call it paranoia. I call it being a mom to a kid who doesn’t understand danger. 

And here’s the kicker: when I do get a sliver of time to myself, when he’s safe and playing and I have even an hour to breathe. I feel guilty the whole damn time. Guilty for needing that minute. Guilty for wanting a break. Guilty that the only way I can get anything done (like cleaning a bathroom, folding the mountain of laundry, or even just sitting the hell down for five) is when someone else has eyes on him.

It’s not that I don’t love my child with every fiber of my being, but mommy needs a flipping break too. I need to recharge before I break, because I’m not the damn energizer bunny. Even if I have been described as a “one woman wrecking crew”, I can’t keep all the chainsaws in the air without help. So before the invisible weight starts to crack through, before the pieces I’m juggling come down in a bloody mess (I can’t recover from), and before I become the hollowed out husk just going through the day to day motions like a damn zombie, I need to take a good hard look at how I’m going to keep myself on this side of the dirt. 

I will always feel like someone, somewhere, is watching and judging me for what they won't take the time to understand. I have to be okay with that. I have to be okay with never matching up to those Pinterest-perfect, smiling, got-it-all-together mothers. Because I’ll I can be is me. Unfiltered, Tattooed, Anxiety driven, and highly caffeinated.

I miss having a net. I miss having someone who didn’t need the whole backstory to get it. I miss the person that would let me rant for 20 to 30 minutes straight and then ask me if I felt better. And now when My little Gremlin has hit a milestone we never thought would happen, I miss having someone to tell. Don’t get me wrong my crew, including his godparents, were over the moon at this development. It just hit me differently when I couldn’t hear her say how proud she was of her little bug. 

It’s also the last week before school starts.

Reset week. That magical time where everything’s supposed to fall into place, routines reestablished, backpacks restocked, meal plans organized, clothes rotated out, and the house… Well, it’s supposed to look like a home again instead of a crime scene full of summer clutter, half-finished projects, and the event bin I still have yet to unpack since Green Bay.

But here’s what no one tells you: Reset week isn’t a reset. It’s a full system reboot, and half the time, it crashes mid-update. Which also makes you reminds of how alone in this broken-down system you really are.

I'm trying. God knows I’m trying to get ahead and a handle on the madness. I’ve cleaned his room, his bathroom, and the hallway. I’ve washed, folded, wiped, and sorted. I’ve made lists, checked supplies, wrestled with emotions I didn’t ask to feel. But every time I cross something off, three more things get added, and I’m straight up ready to throw hands over someone not hanging up their wet towels. (Not the Gremlin)

And then there's the guilt again. Guilt that I’m rushing through the end of summer instead of soaking it up. Guilt that I’m yelling over laundry piles instead of reading books or making popsicles. Guilt that I’m treating time with my kid like a time slot on the to-do list because if I don’t stay on schedule, everything unravels worse than it already has. 

You’d think, after doing this enough times, I’d have it down. Every year feels like starting from scratch with different tools and fewer hands. Reset week isn’t calm. It’s just the storm you choose to meet head-on. Because let's face it… we don’t have a choice.

So, if you’ve made it this far into the post, thank you, and I’m sorry for it being so very long. Sometimes I feel like this is more word vomit, but I do walk away feeling better. I hope you walk away feeling seen, heard, or knowing someone else gets it. This shit is hard. Parenting at any stage is hard. Accepting help is the hardest of all. We both will have to learn how to do that one.

As we gear up for another school year, do understand, I’m right here in the trenches with you. This juggling act gets easier, and hopefully the guilt of enjoying a clean house for at least 7-8 hours a day will pass, when the bus shows back up to drop them off. For now,
though, enjoy the last few days if you can. Hug them close, because they won't be little or within eye shot forever.

Be Brave, Be Bold, But Always Stay Humble.