Last week I was sitting there trying to fill out new patient paperwork for a dentist appointment while listening to Clark growl at Finn—who, for the record, has no concept of personal space. I was also, inexplicably, mad. Not at anyone or anything in particular—just ragey. Existing, ambient rage. Like, “I need to be outside and inside at the same time” kind of rage.
Evelyn peels off her band-aid and is weeping because she can’t get it back on. (“I can’t do it right now!” she wails. Honestly, same.) I want to make beard balms again, but I also have a solid brick of beeswax sitting on my table that requires more upper body strength than I currently possess. Finding ten uninterrupted minutes with a three-year-old? That’s the kind of fantasy that should come with a subscription fee and isn’t possible without having the body and support of Nick present.
Every night I tell myself, tomorrow I won’t yell as much. And every day feels like a rerun: good intentions, zero patience, emotional whiplash. It’s the Groundhog Day of overstimulation. I know the pattern. I can name it. I just… don’t always know where to start fixing it.
Sometimes I picture Evelyn and me driving somewhere early in the morning, just to sit outside and nap in the car when she’s tired. Less time in the house means less mess. Less mess means fewer reminders that I live here. Win-win. Then the guilt of not being “household” productive creeps in. There are animals to be tended to. All the things.
The anxiety hums quietly in the background until I find a spark of dopamine to chase. Blog days are usually that spark — I love hitting publish, crafting the teaser, syncing it with the perfect Florence + The Machine song. It’s like a creative hit of espresso followed by… mild existential dread. Because then comes the wait: will anyone actually read it? Comment? Connect? Metrics would probably help, but that would also require executive function, which has left the chat.
Lately, I’ve felt witchy — like I could manifest productivity just by lighting a candle and staring at a pile of laundry. I can picture my kitchen table covered in beard balm ingredients, me channeling my inner apothecary queen. But then I look around and think, where would I fold the towels? Instant brain static.
I’ve been a little Sally Owens (kitten) myself lately — all hiss at first, then purr when loved. I want space, but also touch… but only from the right person. Poor Nick. The other morning, I was trying to be calm on the couch before Evelyn woke up. He was being affectionate, Finn was smashing a ball into my leg because “ball is life,” and Clark—newly shaved and apparently freezing—wedged himself beside me. I was drowning in physical contact but only wanted Nick’s hand on me, which quickly was removed when I growled, “I’m overstimulated.” He’s the only one whose touch doesn’t take from me, it gives.
Later that day, Evelyn is calm, watching Miss Rachel. The calm before the storm. I’m mentally running through the list of all the things I didn’t do that day: laundry, dishes (wait, no, I did do the dishes), quality time with the kid, dog enrichment, cat cuddles. I did help Breanna go over finances, posted my blog, and managed not to burn dinner. It’s a strange tally of “enough.”
It’s been three and a half years of being home and not making my own money. I thought about getting a remote assistant job, but realized I’m not built to be someone’s “yes woman” anymore, other than Evelyn’s of course! I have great ideas. I love promoting people, things, and art that inspire me. I just need to learn how to market myself with that same energy.
If anyone’s cracked that code, seriously—call me.
I don’t want my blog to sound like “a diary of an overstimulated mom.” I want it to sound like a conversation we’re all already having quietly with ourselves. The things we feel but don’t say.
Like how Florence + The Machine’s new album wrecked me—in the best way. Some critics called it “tragic” or “traumatic.” I call it therapy with a backbeat. It’s grief, growth, and magic spun into sound. Florence feels like the voice of every woman holding it together with a hair tie and a playlist.
I do not find worthiness in virtue
I no longer try to be good
It didn’t keep me safe
Like you told me that it would
So come on, tear me wide open
A terrible gift
Let the chorus console me
Sympathy magic
That lyric from Sympathy Magic hit me like a mirror. It’s the quiet rebellion of letting go of perfection — realizing that “being good” doesn’t protect you from chaos. It’s permission to stop trying to earn rest, love, or calm. Just… to be.
And speaking of emotion regulation: Evelyn’s in her “don’t touch me, don’t talk to me, why aren’t you touching me?!” era. I started hormone replacement therapy (HRT) recently, so we’re basically on parallel emotional journeys—mine with estrogen patches, hers with crayons. We both crave reassurance and space, sometimes in the same breath.
Yesterday I had one of those “I have zero emotional fortitude for this” days when, after 30 minutes of trying, my window for working out at the Y closed because Evelyn was refusing to stay at Child Watch. We were both hangry. We ended up sharing walking tacos and cupcakes, and then napped separately but in solidarity. Healing comes in weird forms, including finishing up the most recent season of The Witcher on Netflix.
Also, for the record: Henry Cavill > Liam Hemsworth. I said what I said.
Now that Halloween’s over, the entire atmosphere has shifted. It’s officially “holiday season,” where you suddenly crave a peppermint mocha and the illusion that Christmas decor still holds some kind of spiritual weight. Yesterday I was wandering the aisles of Target with Evelyn when “We Need a Little Christmas” started playing in my head after she had thrown her hands up and shouted, “I want to see MORE Christmas!” for the um-teenth time. And honestly? Same, kid. Give me twinkle lights, cinnamon candles, and that first hit of fake snow in a display that makes no logical sense. I caught myself smiling, humming along, and thinking—yep, we’ve officially crossed over.
And despite everything—the noise, the mess, the emotions—I can feel my sense of humor coming back online. This morning, I woke up at 5 a.m. choking on my own phlegm (new skill unlocked at 44). Nick thought I was initiating a playful morning moment, until I coughed directly into that little spot on his shoulder where you’d normally nuzzle. You know, the one you’d kiss tenderly or breathe into? Yeah, I coughed into that cavern. It reverberated up his neck and through his shoulder like a low-frequency raspberry. He giggled—actually giggled—and leaned into it, because of course he did.
“That is love,” I told myself, as we both laughed.
We are growing. I am growing.
Right now, I’m craving a day with him where we do absolutely nothing. Just eat, nap, and exist in quiet companionship. In the meantime, I’m trying to lead by example with Evelyn. We’re practicing kindness in words and tone (she’s on timeout number three as I type this).
I want this post to meet readers where they are. I see you. You’re probably in the same swirl of chaos, calm, and caffeine. We’re all in the same bubble — sometimes inside it, sometimes just stepping out to catch our breath.
Florence’s Everybody Scream is my soundtrack right now, and maybe yours too. If you haven’t listened to it, please do! Life’s messy, loud, beautiful, ridiculous… and temporary. Big feelings come and go. Gratitude helps. So does laughter.
And maybe that’s it — maybe this season of life is about finding the soundtrack that keeps us steady. The songs that hum underneath the chaos. The ones that remind us who we are when the noise gets too loud. Because sometimes, the only thing that saves us from screaming… is the music that says, I see you too. What’s your soundtrack?
Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go reattach a band-aid to a three-year-old and break down a brick of beeswax like a Viking.
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