Before you read this, please know:
This isn’t about blame. It’s about how things feel from my side. I’m not saying anyone is wrong. I’m just trying to give language to feelings that I often carry quietly. Writing is how I process, not how I point fingers. I love deeply, and this is one way I learn to understand myself so I can love better.
Right now, as I’m typing this, my three-year-old is sitting at the end of our counter crying because she “wants to see Sally Owens.” Sally is our newest fur baby—named after the witch from Practical Magic. One green eye, one blue, full chaos in a fluffy package. If you know, you know. Meanwhile, I’m trying to decide if I’m parenting or performing an exorcism. I want quiet; she wants a cat séance. The crying is scratching at the thin layer of patience I’m trying to stretch across my day. And that’s really what this post is about: learning how to take myself into consideration without feeling guilty about it—or lighting sage.
I saw something the other day that stopped me: people-pleasers are actually setting their closest people up for failure. Because when you never voice your needs, you build resentment toward the very people you’re trying to protect. That one punched me right in the “I’m fine.” I’ve been the over-accommodating, keep-the-peace, “don’t worry, I’ve got it” person for so long that my own needs are like expired yogurt in the back of the fridge—technically still there, but probably not safe to ignore.
Nick just took a solo trip to Virginia to see his dad for his 60th birthday. I’ve struggled with his solo time—not because I don’t want him to go, but because I never really do anything solo myself. Before him, I was traveling, going to concerts, eating alone in restaurants like I owned the place. I was rebuilding after my second marriage, remembering who “Bridgette” was. He met me right in that rediscovery phase. Fast-forward nine years, and while the love is solid, the me part sometimes gets misplaced between arranging my days around nap routines, extra curricular transportation and dinner plans.
When he left for that trip, something in me got loud. Not the kind of loud that starts fights, just the kind that mutters “what about me?” into your coffee. Instead of writing a novel via text, I sat in it and really thought about it. I wrote…a lot. I texted my best friend (of course!). I realized I consider everyone all the time. The meals, the moods, the vitamins, the naps, the pets, the bills. You name it, I’ve thought about it. But I rarely stop to ask myself what I need. I consider everyone, but not myself. That realization hit like an email from the universe with “per my last attempt at self-care” in the subject line.
Some of that goes back further. Since my mom passed, my relationship with my dad has… dimmed. I’ve reached out, said I miss him, tried to keep us connected, but it feels like static on the line. I know grief scrambles people differently, but sometimes it feels like I’m floating out there, waiting for a signal.
When I think about it, I picture my inner child as an untethered astronaut—drifting in that quiet space between what was and what is. Everyone I love is down there, grounded, busy, and I’m just floating nearby, watching, waving, trying to find my footing again. My mom was my tether—my beginning, my grounding. Losing her didn’t just shake my world; it left a part of me untethered. These days, I find gravity in Nick, in my closest friends, and in being a mom. But that little astronaut version of me? She’s still floating sometimes. And she just wants to be considered, too.
Maybe that’s why this whole consideration theme has hit so hard. I want to be considered—not for attention, but for connection. The same way that inner astronaut just wants to know someone’s still holding the line.
It’s funny, because this whole thing technically started at Wegmans back in March. My first solo trip in forever. I walked in with big main-character energy—coffee in hand, sunglasses on indoors, fully prepared to browse like a woman who knows what she wants. Three hours later, I was still in there, having what can only be described as an emotional scavenger hunt through the frozen foods.
If you’ve ever been to Wegmans, you know no two stores are laid out the same. It’s like they purposely redesign them to test your will to live. But as I stood there debating over soup, I realized it wasn’t the store that was confusing—it was me. I couldn’t figure out what I wanted, because I hadn’t asked myself that question in years. Not just “what’s for dinner,” but what do I want, period?
That trip planted the seed. The Virginia weekend just watered it with perimenopausal rage and lack of sleep.
We’ve been in couples counseling, and one of the biggest takeaways so far is that Nick and I both tend to relate to each other’s feelings instead of validating them. It’s not malice; it’s instinct. When someone shares something, it’s easier to say, “Oh, I’ve felt that,” instead of “Yeah, that makes sense.” Validation over comparison—it’s a small shift, but it changes everything.
And once I noticed that, I started seeing it everywhere. Like when someone tells Nick they love something I wrote or loves my photography but doesn’t tell me. I know they mean well, but it hits weird. It’s not about needing a standing ovation. I just want the occasional “Hey, I saw what you did there.” Recognition isn’t about ego; it’s about connection. It’s the “I see you” of adult life.
Consideration can look like that, too. A text back. Remembering that I said I was tired. Saying “that post hit me” instead of assuming I know it did. Little things that say, “You matter. You’re not invisible in your own orbit.”
I used to think being low-maintenance was a compliment. Turns out, “low-maintenance” sometimes translates to “she’ll handle it.” Independence says, “I’ve got this.” Invisibility whispers, “I’ll handle it because no one else notices.” Somewhere along the line, those two got tangled.
So last week, I bought myself sushi. From Sam’s Club, because apparently, that’s who I am now. And flowers—because why not? It felt ridiculous and freeing all at once. Maybe that’s what the tether back to Earth feels like. Grocery-store sushi and discount daisies.
It reminded me that consideration has to start with me. It’s not selfish to take up space in my own life or to ask for space in someone else’s. To me, consideration opens curiosity, and curiosity invites understanding. I don’t think most people are inconsiderate; I think we just get distracted. We stop asking why before assuming what. We forget to say the small things that make people feel seen.
So yeah, I’ll probably still get lost in Wegmans again someday, aimlessly circling the produce section pretending to make decisions while secretly enjoying the quiet. But this time, I’ll know what I’m looking for — a little grace, a little humor, and maybe another pre-made sushi roll I don’t have to share with anyone.
Because I’m learning that consideration doesn’t always come from others — sometimes it’s something you give back to yourself.
And maybe that’s what this season of my life is really about: learning how to hold my own tether. To stay connected, grounded, and gently pull myself back when I start to drift too far.
Consider this: maybe what we all want most isn’t to be perfectly understood. Maybe we just want to be considered. Deeply. Gently. And often.
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