Last week was New Year’s Eve, and I cried in my car. Way to start 2026’s first post, Bridgette. But in all seriousness—with some humor—everything will be okay.
So, it wasn’t the cinematic kind of cry with swelling music or dramatic timing. Just tears spilling out because my stepdaughter told me something simple: her therapist said I’m really on top of things… and that I really am pretty amazing.
I wasn’t prepared for how hard that hit.
It wasn’t praise from someone who loves me and has to believe that. It wasn’t framed as bragging or defending me. It was neutral. Observational. Someone seeing me without context, obligation, or emotional attachment. And apparently, that’s something I really needed.
When I spiral emotionally, I’ve realized it’s usually grief. A quiet kind. The kind that shows up as loneliness, even when you’re surrounded by people. I am incredibly grateful to be a stay-at-home mom. I don’t take that lightly. I’ve been given the chance to really sink into my creative side and explore what work I want to return to when this season ends.
But there is also a very isolating part of being a SAHM in your mid-40s, navigating perimenopause, emotional labor, and the constant awareness of everyone else’s needs.
I am always aware. Always anticipating. I know routines. I know habits. I am watchful, curious, and deeply empathetic to the many nuances my girls carry as children of divorce. I am grateful Evelyn won’t have to experience that. I am determined to continue growing in my marriage—even when I am exhausted and feel incredibly alone inside it.
There is no love like a mother’s. And when I feel lost, unseen, or unheard, I want mine the most.
I want the hug she would give me after asking, “What’s up?” and I say “Nothing,” and she gives me that look that says, don’t bullshit me, and I break. I want the space to exist as myself without being needed.
I’ve always told my girls that it’s better to be needed because you’re loved, rather than loved because you’re needed. Lately, I’ve realized how heavy that distinction can feel when you’re the one who is always needed.
The last couple of weeks quietly compiled. I was really looking forward to my solo therapy appointment when it was canceled last minute and pushed out two weeks. I realized the next time I’d talk would be in couples therapy, and I wasn’t ready to process everything out loud without first making room for my own thoughts—without my feelings being filtered through someone else’s interpretation.
I don’t know if it’s age or hormones, but I feel myself wanting to remove the filter. Not to be blunt, abrasive, or brash—simply to exist clearly as myself. To trust my intentions. To see myself as a whole person. Being tuned into all the feelings, all the time, is just… a lot.
That night, after shoveling snow, I gave Evelyn way too much whipped cream. We all had a squirt from the can. She drank her hot chocolate from my Grinch mug. Nick ran one of the girls out for New Year’s Eve plans. Emily stayed back with me.
I put on Florence & the Machine’s Delilah (because of course I did). Evelyn and I danced in the kitchen. She grabbed Emily and yelled, “Eminy! Eminy! Come dance with us!” Emily strolled in, smiling, watching us. I realized she was probably seeing a memory—me dancing with her and her sisters years ago. Different song. Same energy.
We were laughing when Evelyn suddenly stopped.
That burp.
The wet one.
The warning shot had been fired.
I scooped her up just in time to hold her over the sink before she projectile vomited slightly digested whipped cream and hot chocolate. As I cleaned her up, she calmly said, “Sometimes that happens, but it’s okay.”
Same, girl. Same.
Rewind back to the crying part of my day. I had cried in front of one of my girls and immediately felt foolish. I’m the steady one. The safe space. My feelings aren’t supposed to spill over. But those tears came fast and easily—which told me I needed them. She reassured me that sometimes it’s necessary. A good reset. Especially for my sinuses.
She was right. I felt lighter.
Probably how Evelyn felt after her chocolate explosion.
The weekend slowed after the holidays. We adjusted naps, routines, boundaries. Nick and I talked. I processed. We ended the weekend by the fire pit—music, conversation, chicken wing dip, catching our breath as it lightly snowed.
This is also where I should mention that Finn’s new chew toy from BARK!—a lobster—looks alarmingly like a penis when flipped upside down. I don’t know if someone should be fired or high-fived for that design choice, but either way… bold move, BARK. Bold move. Marisa say’s high five by the way!
And that’s when it hit me.
Life—especially motherhood—is the chips vs. dip problem.
You know it. You order spinach artichoke dip or chips and salsa, and one always runs out before the other. You want more of one to finish the other, but that option never exists in equal parts.
I was loading chicken wing dip onto celery when I realized that’s exactly what life feels like. Too much dip, not enough chip. Too much responsibility, not enough rest. Too much love, not enough space. Too much joy, not enough time.
Every reel, article, or horoscope talks about balance. Presence. Letting go of control. The #1 movie when I turned ten was Kindergarten Cop, so apparently 2026 will be loud, emotional, exhausting, and involve a tiny human. Checks out.
But the chips vs. dip problem isn’t just motherhood.
Relationships are the chips vs. dip problem too.
Someone is always giving a little more. Sometimes it’s 60/40. Sometimes it’s 80/20. Sometimes one person is just trying to survive while the other is carrying the weight. And sometimes—if you’re lucky—it’s 50/50, and when it is, it feels amazing.
The problem isn’t that it’s rarely 50/50. The problem is pretending it should be.
Relationships aren’t static. They shift with seasons, stress, grief, hormones, illness, exhaustion, and growth. Sometimes one person has more chips and the other has more dip. When things are healthy, you notice. You adjust. You don’t keep scooping until someone is left with nothing.
What becomes exhausting is when one person is always compensating. Always stretching. Always noticing the imbalance and quietly fixing it.
And this is where effort comes in.
Effort is the part of the chips vs. dip problem people like to skip over because it feels uncomfortable to name. It’s not about money. It’s not about intention. It’s about follow-through.
If a gift is sitting forty minutes away and needs to be mailed because no one wanted to make the trip, that’s not a neutral decision. That’s effort—or the lack of it—showing up in real time. Especially when it involves a toddler, a schedule, and the emotional weight of making something happen.
Sometimes the imbalance isn’t loud. It doesn’t come with an argument. It comes with quiet decisions that land on the same person again and again. The planning. The driving. The adjusting. The figuring it out.
And the thing is, effort doesn’t need to be grand. It doesn’t need to be dramatic. But it does need to be visible. Because when effort consistently flows in one direction, so does exhaustion.
This isn’t about keeping score. It’s about acknowledging reality. If one person is always making the trip, always rearranging the day, always absorbing the inconvenience, then the ratio is off—even if no one meant for it to be.
Effort is one of the clearest indicators of balance. Not words. Not promises. Not “I would have if…” Just action.
And when effort is shared—when someone shows up without being asked, when they take the longer route so you don’t have to—it feels like that rare moment when the chips and dip finally match.
That’s where resentment starts. Not because someone is failing—but because no one is naming the ratio.
Balance doesn’t mean equal effort all the time. It means awareness. Communication. Saying I’m running low on chips without guilt. Asking for more dip when you need it—and giving it when you can.
Here’s the word again: consideration.
When relationships are working well, they feel like that rare, perfect bite—where the chip doesn’t break, the dip doesn’t overpower, and nothing runs out too soon.
I checked my 2026 horoscope out of curiosity. It said this isn’t a year for reinvention or chasing momentum that doesn’t fit the season I’m in. It’s about depth. Sustainability. Using my voice honestly. Consistency without burnout. Fewer ideas, deeper writing. Showing up—not louder or faster, just truer.
Which tracks—because earlier that week I chased a coffee that did not love me back.
I’ve been craving a raspberry white mocha ever since Nick mentioned Planet Oat had a limited-edition creamer. Spoiler alert: I can’t find it anywhere. So after therapy, I tried to recreate the vibe at Dunkin’. I ordered an oat milk latte with mocha swirl and raspberry flavor.
What I got tasted like… warm oat milk. That’s it. No mocha. No raspberry. Just disappointment in a cup. Just like that I realized something important right there in that drive-thru: I’m done spending time, money, or energy on things that aren’t what I’m actually seeking.
I don’t eat donuts. I don’t chase empty coffee promises. And I don’t want relationships, routines, or rhythms that leave me depleted.
And before I end this, I need to ask one last thing—mostly for my witchy women, and also for the ones quietly watching my stories pretending they’re not intrigued.
There’s a theory that water left under the light of a full moon absorbs its energy. Emotional clarity. Renewal. Release. Intuition. Manifestation. All that good, mystical, moon-charged stuff.
Here’s my question: Snow is water. So… does eating snow count? What about chewing icicles? Is that technically moon water? Or am I just cold, tired, and looking for a loophole into some cosmic reset?
Asking for a friend.
If it does count, then the icicle Evelyn and I shared definitely did the work—and honestly, I’ll take the win. 😉
If not, here I am. Post-holiday. Still tired. Still showing up. Still learning that sometimes things spill over. Sometimes you cry in your car. Sometimes the chips run out before the dip.
And sometimes… that’s okay.
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